


The Trouble With Sentiment

by jdschmidtwriter



Series: Hooked On A Feeling [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mystery, Romance, Romantic Angst, Sequel to The Devil's Chord, Slow Burn, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 82,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5117669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdschmidtwriter/pseuds/jdschmidtwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All gifts have a price. All minds are flawed. The frailty of genius is a burden indeed.</p><p>The Sequel to The Devil's Chord. Sherlock/OC</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to The Devil's Chord. I hope you enjoy it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated as of 12/31/16

Sherlock glared out the frost-gilded window. A flurry of snowflakes floated down, blanketing the ground. Only a few cars eased their way along Baker Street, the usual last minute shoppers, Speedy's cafe patrons, and gallivanting children absent. He scowled and resumed pacing.

John added another glittering ornament to their Christmas tree and smiled, humming an off-key rendition of "Good King Wenceslas." He appeared entirely too enamored with the horrid weather, the holiday season, and with himself.

Sherlock kicked at the scattered pine needles on the floor as he made another circuit of the room. He'd argued against getting a tree. The entire ritual was absurd. Why bring a dead plant into their flat? What was the point? John had marched into the kitchen and pointed out the severed arm nestled in the bottom drawer of the fridge. Somehow, the illogical comparison had resulted in them getting a tree.

"You got to see a dead body today. Can't you just relax?" John asked.

“Relax? It wasn't even a murder. The man choked on his Yorkshire pudding."

"But the free-range hamster came as a surprise."

"It was a surprise for you - not me." The pair of cuts that had meandered like a grotesque train track across the dead man's face had obviously been made by a rodent, not a serial killer in the making. Pity. While John and Lestrade's horrified reactions to the golden hamster living inside the man's dresser drawer had been mildly diverting, it had done very little to alleviate Sherlock's boredom. He needed another distraction, and soon.

John set a Santa hat atop the skull on the mantel and gave it a pat. Sherlock snatched it and tossed the offensive decoration across the room. It hit the wall, then disappeared behind the sofa.

A sigh. "It's Christmas Eve, Sherlock. Drink some mulled wine or something. Take the edge off. That's what all the murderers are doing right now. I’m sure they'll get back to killing people after the New Year."

Sherlock's lip curled. "Not if this abysmal weather continues. The colder it gets, the fewer the crimes. Everyone is inside  _ behaving _ ." 

“Yeah, what a shame,” John muttered as he picked up a ghastly cotton ball snowman. The rubbish ornament had been cobbled together by one of John's bumbling patients. Sherlock's gaze flicked to the fireplace. He knew the perfect place to put it. 

A chime sounded, and Sherlock whipped out his mobile. Maybe it was Lestrade with a case.

It wasn't. Instead, it was a photograph from a blocked number.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Come see for yourself.”

John set his box of ornaments down and moved to Sherlock's side. Most of the picture was taken up by a black cab. The falling snow made it impossible to read the license plate or see into the car. A building loomed behind it, and a shop window was partially visible near the cab's bonnet. Soft orange lights reflected in the glass, revealing a shadowy stack of round objects.

“Maybe it's a wrong number,” John said.

Sherlock's phone chimed again.

_ 5:30pm _

Twenty minutes from now. "It appears we’ve been issued an invitation."

“If so, it's a ruddy vague one.”

Sherlock’s lips curved. “Not at all. This is proper intrigue. A test." His evening was finally looking up. He studied his phone. "Whoever sent this is a skilled photographer."

"Why do you say that?”

Sherlock pointed at the bottom corner. "Look at the angle of the shot, the way it’s framed here by the line of the cab and the architecture of the building. See the attention to light? They used a wide angle lens."

John lifted a brow. “Planning on writing a letter of admiration?”

“No. I'm merely making an observation.” 

"Fine, but what's the point? Are we supposed to find the cab? There's no number on it. We can't even identify who's driving."

Sherlock shook his head. "The entire point of the cab is to tell us we need one. It’s the first clue. The second one is the meeting time. It indicates the location isn’t far.” He shoved John’s coat at him and grabbed his own. “Come on. We’re running out of time.” 

John followed him down the stairs. "But we don’t even know where we’re going."

“We’ll figure it out on the way,” Sherlock said, opening the outside door. An icy wind whirled snowflakes down the hall. He grinned. Not even the foul weather could dampen his mood now. They had a mystery to solve. 

He flagged down a lone cab ambling down the road, and he and John slid inside.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock threw up a dismissive hand. “Go east.”

The young man craned his head around, thick brows furrowed. "What do you mean 'Go east'?"

Impatience bit at Sherlock's insides. "You should choose a different occupation if you're this directionally challenged." He pointed down the street. "Go that way."

John made a small noise of protest.

The cabbie shook his head. “Sorry, I need a destination, mate. That's how this works.”

"Wrong. Your fare is calculated by the standard tariffs, and the time and distance traveled, so no actual destination is required. Now do your job, and drive."

The man's mulish expression remained. "I can't, not without-"

John leaned forward. "Could you please take us to The Old Red Lion Theatre?"

The cabbie gave a curt nod and pulled away from the curb. "Now, that I can do."

At this point, Sherlock doubted the man was capable of tying his own trainers, let alone navigating the streets of London.

“Please tell me you aren’t planning on us driving all around the city in search of the shop front,” John said.

"Of course not. I intend to find the location, but I need to go to my Mind Palace first."

"Fine, but if you're still inside your head by the time we reach the pub, I'm leaving you here and going in for a drink."

"That won't be necessary. I'll be done before then." Sherlock closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. The hum of the cab and the swish of the windscreen wipers faded away. Everything went still, then the library at  _ Brackenwood _ coalesced around him. Dark wood paneling glinted in the firelight, and bookcases filled to the brim with aged tomes stretched toward the ceiling.

A soft green glow caught the corner of his eye. He turned, frowned.

The tobernite was back on the mantel.  _ Again. _

He strode over to it, hands clenched. It had absolutely no business being here. From the two leather chairs, to the world globe in the corner, to each individual book, every single object had been placed there by him with the utmost care. 

All except this one. 

The jagged, deep green chunk of radioactive crystal shimmered inside its glass case. It had appeared in his Mind Palace right before he and John had left Battersea Park to rescue Vivian Walker.

_ Vivian. _

Three months ago, he'd forced her through morphine withdrawal, prevented her from committing suicide, taught her to build her own Mind Palace, and nearly got her killed in the process. Of course, she'd nearly killed him with an avalanche of hay bales, practically destroyed his Belstaff coat with pink paint, bruised his ribs during a mud fight, and still somehow compelled him to dive into a pool and risk his life to save hers. All within a ten-day span.

He hadn't seen or heard from her since she'd left for France. The evidence he and John had presented, which had included Vivian's written testimony, had been enough to imprison Renee for the death of Rebecca Frost, the assault on Doctor Reed, and for Vivian's abduction and attempted murder. Renee had remained tight-lipped regarding Sundrian. Though drugged and unconscious at the time, Vivian’s audio eidetic memory had recorded a short, one-sided phone conversation between Renee and a unknown caller. Renee had said she wouldn’t let Sundrian down. Whether Sundrian was a person or organization, Sherlock didn’t know. After hours of fruitless research, he’d finally had to set the mystery aside.

His concern grew as he studied the tobernite. Why was it here? He picked up the case, and warmth crept up his fingers, startling him. It felt heavy in his hands, much weightier than it would have been in reality. Strange.

Locking it away in the side table clearly hadn't worked. It appeared to prefer being the focal point of the room, which was more than a little alarming considering this was the heart of his Mind Palace. His stomach twisted at the thought of having to ask Mycroft about it. No doubt his brother would be delighted to educate him, all smug and patronizing and stuffed with cake. Perhaps it'd be best to just delete it.

The glowing green crystal went dark, and the case turned arctic, sucking the heat from his skin. An echoing cold throbbed in his chest, and he quickly set the case back onto the mantel and backed away. It obviously didn't appreciate his thought to destroy it. Back in its preferred spot, the tobernite resumed its previous glow. Sherlock forced himself to turn away. Taking care of it was going to have to be the focus of another day.

He reached into his pocket and removed a photograph, a perfect replica of the one he'd received on his mobile. He set it against the door leading out of the library, and it melted into the wood.

"Show me."

The door opened to a long corridor, and he strode down it. Soft grey carpet melted into pavement and the walls to shadowy buildings with curling fog. 

He sighed. "Why the fog? There’s snow in the ruddy picture. Why not use that? Or are you being purposefully melodramatic?"

The fog froze mid-swirl, as if someone had hit the pause button on a film, then vanished. The ground rolled beneath his feet. Tiny fractures formed in the pavement, and snow surged upward through the widening cracks. 

And now he stood knee-deep in snow.

A bit of an overkill, but at least the setting was more accurate.

Indistinct buildings loomed on either side of him as he slogged his way down the street. A cab materialized beside him, parked along the curb. He approached it, standing where he thought their photographer had stood. There sat the shop. Orange lights tinted the glass window, though the stack of round objects still remained in shadow. They were tiered, getting smaller as they got to the top, like a fancy cake. Except he knew it wasn’t a cake. The trim along the edging of the window was black, straight-lined, not a curling design in keeping with a bakery shop.

The wind picked up, and movement down the street drew his eye. 

Something rolled toward him. 

A tire? 

No. The closer it got, the smaller it became. 

It bumped into the cab and tumbled onto its side. Roughly the size of a dinner plate, as thick as a brick, and covered in something red. 

He stooped down to examine it, then chuckled. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled. "Head to 93 Jermyn Street."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated as of 12/31/16

The cabbie complied, turning right at the next intersection.

John eyed Sherlock, an odd expression on his face.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You laughed, and now you've got me worried."

Sherlock forced his smile to remain. While in his Mind Palace, every action was supposed to be disconnected from his physical self, much like the paralysis the body experienced when dreaming. Wonderful. Another Mind Palace problem to solve. He shrugged. "I amuse myself sometimes."

"Yes, and that's why I'm concerned."

A smirk tugged at his mouth. "Can't you just relax?"

John rolled his eyes. "Haha. Very funny."

Eight minutes later, the cabbie dropped them off at their destination.

John stared up at the shop. "A cheese monger?"

"Yes. Paxton and Whitfield. Cheese mongers since 1797." It was the reason he'd laughed. A wheel of cheese had hit the cab in his Mind Palace, not a tire. Up close now, there was no mistaking the tiered rounds of cheese on display. The shop's interior was dark, and orange lights from across the street reflected off the wide window.

John pressed his nose to the glass, fogging it up with his breath. "It doesn't look like anyone's in."

Sherlock checked his watch. They had three minutes.

Someone had decided to play a game with him. Not that he minded. But who? Obviously someone who knew he appreciated a good puzzle. Perhaps an early Christmas gift? He eyed John. The wrinkle line on his forehead indicated his confusion, so clearly he wasn't involved.

"It's a simple cheese shop, Sherlock. No dead bodies in sight."

"How unfortunate."

"Why are we here?"

Good question. Snowflakes danced through the air, sending icy pinpricks against Sherlock's face. What was he missing? His gaze zeroed in on the orange light reflected in the window. His breath caught. He spun around, then had the urge to slap himself.

The lights illuminated a sign for an Indian food restaurant.  _ Tamarind. _

Sherlock pointed at it. "There. The lights reflected in the window were the clue, not the cheese shop. The point was to determine where our photographer was when they took the photo."

"Wait - what?"

Sherlock didn't bother to explain further. He gripped John's elbow and dragged him across the street. It wouldn't do to be late.

Curry, cardamom, and garlic teased his nose as he entered the restaurant. Gold pillars gleamed in the brightly lit rectangular room. A curving glass wall separated the kitchen from the dining area, allowing the patrons to view the cooking process. One man set a dish inside a tandoori oven, while another deftly removed freshly baked naan bread from the inside wall. A steady beat, the twanging strings of a sitar, and a woman's low undulating voice sang softly in the background. Despite the cold weather, the tables were nearly full.

A young couple sat in the corner, eyes only for each other, while a rowdy crowd of university students gathered around a long line of smaller tables. Judging by their flushed faces and overly loud voices, they'd imbibed a number of alcoholic beverages before dinner. Three elderly couples and five groups of parents with children dotted the room.

And that was it. They were all completely ordinary. There was absolutely no one of note.

It didn't make sense. Sherlock knew this was the right place. The lights had been the final clue. But who were they supposed to meet?

A dark-haired woman wearing the same uniform as the cooking staff approached. Her gaze flitted over his shoes, coat, and hair, then settled on his face. "You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

“The one and only,” Sherlock said.

She smiled, teeth white against her coffee skin. "You  _ are _ easy to spot."

"And who told you that?"

"Why, our guest, who's been patiently waiting for you and Doctor Watson, of course."

His mouth quirked. "How very illuminating." Not to mention delightfully intriguing.

The woman's smile widened. "Follow me." She wove her way around the crowded tables to the back of the restaurant and gestured them through an ornate door. "Continue down the hall and into the banquet room, please." They walked through, and she shut the door behind them, leaving them alone. The noise from the main dining area ceased. Light flickered at the end of the dim corridor. The brightness of the main room had ill-prepared them for such an abrupt change in lighting. Spots danced in front of Sherlock's eyes.

"I can hardly see," John said.

“I know. Isn't it fun?” This was far more enjoyable than being cooped up in 221B and enduring John's ceaseless humming.

"You realize this could be a trap, don't you?"

"Oh yes. I'm hoping for it." Though he’d settle for any sort of surprise at this point, life-threatening or otherwise.

"Right. Attempted abduction on your Christmas list, is it?"

"Yes, just below ritual murder."

John snickered, and they continued onward. Anticipation curled in Sherlock's stomach as the hall ended and opened up into the banquet room. Unused tables and chairs were stacked against one wall, and strings of dimly lit white fairy lights hung from the rafters. They approached a small round table set for three near a flickering fire. While the lighting was better here than in the hallway, the far reaches of the room were still lost in shadow.

"Just in time," a woman's voice said. She sounded pleased. And familiar.

Sherlock went still. A tall, dark silhouette moved into the light.

Red hair. Green eyes. Lips curved in greeting. "Hello."

"Vivian!" John rushed past him to embrace her.

Irritation pricked at Sherlock. Why did John feel the need to hug every single woman he came across? Didn't he have a girlfriend for that very purpose? Or was Abigail not giving him enough attention?

Vivian smiled at him over John's shoulder. “It's good to see you, Sherlock.”

He managed a nod, still startled by her unexpected appearance.

John finally released Vivian, and she waved a hand at the table. "Won't you both sit down? The food should be out soon. I took the liberty of pouring the wine."

Sherlock sat and took a sip. It was a German Riesling. Tart, with a residual sweetness. An excellent contrast for heavily spiced Indian food.

Vivian hung their damp coats on a rack near the fireplace. A glowing vitality suffused her skin, one that hadn't been present before. He blinked. This was the first time he'd seen her at full health. Her cheekbones were no longer so starkly defined, the dimples framing her smile deeper.

Sherlock raised his glass in her direction as she headed back to the table. "You've gained weight. Ten pounds."

She froze mid-step, smile fading.

" _ Sherlock _ ," John hissed.

He frowned. "What?"

John shot a pained look at Vivian. "Allow me to apologize for him. He's an idiot." John turned back to Sherlock and lowered his voice. "Don't ever say that to a woman. Ever."

"Why not? It's the truth."

Vivian's chin lifted. "Is it a problem?"

"Is what a problem?" Sherlock asked.

"My weight."

"Don't say another word," John whispered. "You'll only make things worse."

Sherlock ignored him. "Why would your weight be a problem?"

"Why mention it if it wasn't?"

He sat back, eyes narrowing. What had she thought he'd meant? Apparently something insulting, judging by her defensive tone. He chose his next words carefully. "You were underweight the last time I saw you. I was only pointing out your improved health."

A skeptical huff. “So, you're saying I look better?”

He took in her cobalt silk blouse and dark, fitted jeans, eyes tracing along the lines of her body. Lines that were undeniably feminine. Her perfectly tailored clothing paid homage to every curve. While those curves hadn't been absent before, they were certainly more pronounced now. A flash of heat shot through him. Why was he feeling warm? He was the furthest one from the fire.

A cough sounded.

Sherlock's gaze bounced up to meet Vivian's, and the warmth washed over him again, this time flooding the back of his neck for no apparent reason. Vivian's eyes were bright, cheeks flushed. It appeared she was equally as affected. Strange. A quick glance at John ruled out an increase in room temperature since John was still wearing his jumper, and his skin retained its normal hue. Vivian's eyebrows rose in expectation, and Sherlock belatedly realized she was still waiting on a response from him. Thoroughly disconcerted, he somehow kept his expression impassive, fingers tightening on the stem of the wine glass. "Yes. You look better. Your clothes actually fit you now."

Clearing her throat, Vivian took the remaining seat between him and John, then nodded. "Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment. It was an observation."

"Oh my god," John murmured, staring down at his napkin, his face one of abject despair. "I don't know why I even try."

Vivian's lips twitched. "An observation. Of course. I shouldn't presume. I appreciate your assessment of my good health."

Sherlock nodded.

Four waiters appeared then, arms laden with trays, and John heaved a sigh of relief. Dish after dish was set before them.

"Did you order the entire menu?" John asked with a laugh.

Vivian lifted a lid off a metal bowl, and steam curled up toward the ceiling. "I didn't know what you'd both like, so I got a little bit of everything."

A massive understatement, to say the least.

Lamb with peppers, crushed coriander and cumin. Tiger prawns with sautéed onions, fenugreek seeds and coconut. Yellow lentils simmered with ginger, tomatoes, and green chilies. And three additional dishes. One chicken, one sea bass, and what appeared to be lobster.

Vivian spooned rice onto her plate, added a stack of garlic naan, and then poured a generous amount of chicken korma on top. John went for the lamb and a heaping portion of lentils. Abigail was fortunate to miss the next twenty-four hours.

Vivian eyed Sherlock's empty plate. "Can you eat or are you on a case?"

Sherlock settled his napkin on his lap, ignoring John's satisfied grin. "I can eat. We're not working on anything pressing at the moment."

Her face lit up. "Oh good. The food here is incredible."

Sherlock only nodded, perplexed how anyone could be so enthusiastic over a meal. He served himself a portion from the nearest three dishes.

Vivian dipped a slice of flat bread into the golden sauce on her plate and brought it to her mouth. Her eyes fell shut, and she let out a low, drawn-out hum.

Sherlock paused, his first bite of food halted halfway to his mouth. The expression on her face went far beyond blissful. It was borderline euphoric. Another appreciative noise escaped her, this one practically a moan. A waiter, utterly transfixed, tripped over his own feet and launched an empty water pitcher across the room. Vivian was so immersed in her food, she didn't even notice. Her tongue darted out and caught a tiny dab of sauce left on her lips.

Another wave of heat washed over Sherlock. He tore his gaze from her and reached for his water glass, draining half of it. He had to be dehydrated or something.

John's brows were stretched high on his forehead, mouth slightly agape.

The remaining piece of naan bread slipped past Vivian's lips, and she released a long, satisfied sigh. Her eyes fluttered open, then grew wide when she noticed them staring. A deep blush flooded her face then slowly crept down her neck. "Sorry. I haven't eaten here in over two years." She cleared her throat, and her eyes dropped to her plate. "This is one of my favorites."

Sherlock swallowed. Nothing he'd ever eaten had made him react like that. He picked up his fork again and took a bite. While the sweet and spicy flavors were well balanced, he didn't feel compelled to moan over it.

"It’s, um, perfectly all right for you to enjoy your food," John said as he scooped up some lentils.

A wince. "It's not very British of me though, is it?"

Sherlock snorted. "No. Your pleasure in the experience is far too unrestrained."

"Yes, highly improper. Sherlock's never been one for such uncivilized behavior." John grinned and refilled Vivian's wine glass. "He once described a series of murders as 'Christmas' and then proceeded to dance about like a complete nutter."

"Yes, well, at least I don’t enjoy taking floral scented bubble baths," Sherlock said.

John sputtered, and his ears reddened. "Lavender is relaxing. And God knows I need to de-stress with you around."

Vivian laughed and raised her glass. "To each their own."

"Hear, hear," John said.

Vivian resumed eating, without any sound effects this time, though her eyes still slid closed with every bite.

"You know, Sherlock, considering Vivian's deep love affair with food, it's a miracle she didn't kill you for chaining the fridge shut at  _ Brackenwood _ ."

Until now, Sherlock hadn't truly recognized the sacrifice Vivian had made. Food was merely fuel for transport for him. Not so with her. She appeared to love good food as much as he loved a good murder. And that was saying something.

Vivian leaned in, smiling. "Oh, I wanted to kill him alright. I was just too starved to manage it."

"Funny, I don't recall any animosity from you at all," Sherlock said, tone droll.

Vivian laughed. “You must have deleted quite a bit then.” She took a sip of her wine, and her expression shifted to one more serious. "In all honesty though, I invited you both here to thank you for helping me. I realize dinner isn't much in exchange for saving my life, but I wanted to express my gratitude all the same."

"You really didn't have to. We were happy to help," John said.

Sherlock nodded. Vivian's case had been a welcome challenge, and it ranked among his favorites. Not that he'd ever tell her that.

"I suppose I could have just called, but I hoped it would be more fun this way. You aren't upset, are you?"

"Hardly," Sherlock said. Though he did wonder how she'd gotten his personal number. His web site only displayed his business line. He eyed John. Right. Of course John had given it to her.

"Upset?" John echoed, tone incredulous. "Sherlock was carving a ruddy path in the carpet. He looked about ready to burn the Christmas tree down next. Your mysterious text saved our flat."

Merriment danced in her eyes. "I'm sure you're exaggerating."

"Oh, I'm really not," John said, shaking his head. He tapped her phone, where it sat on the table top. "How long have you been into photography?"

Her eyebrows rose. "Off and on for the past two years. I take a few classes at university whenever I find the time. Why?"

John nodded in Sherlock's direction. "You should have heard him, waxing poetic about the framing of the photo you sent us, the wide angle lens, and the attention to light."

"Oh, really?" Her eyes crinkled. "So, you think I'm good, do you?"

The picture  _ had _ been well-executed. He nodded. "Better than amateur."

Her mouth quirked. "Is that a compliment?"

"No. Observation."

She grinned. "Noted."

John tapped her arm. "How's it feeling? I see your cast is gone."

"Oh, well-spotted," Sherlock said.

"Shut up."

Still grinning, Vivian stretched her arm out to the side, then bent it inward at the elbow. "It's a little stiff and sore still, but loads better. Especially now that bloody cast is off. It itched like hell."

"Well, I'm glad it's mended well." John pushed his empty plate away. "So, what are you doing in London on Christmas Eve, besides treating us to dinner?"

"I was just transferred to a company in central London. I'll be helping improve their productivity."

"What company?" John asked.

"Cubic Systems."

"Hmm. Haven't heard of them."

Sherlock hadn't either, but it wasn't as if he paid much attention to that sort of thing.

"It's a growing independent software company," Vivian said. "Should be interesting. I managed to get a nice flat near Kennington Park at least."

"How long will you be with company then?" John asked.

"However long they wish to retain my services. That can be anywhere from a few weeks to six months. Usually it falls somewhere in the middle, as long as I don't piss anyone off."

John chuckled. "Is that a frequent occurrence?"

Her smile was all teeth. "Business owners don't expect their newly hired consultant to inform them they're the problem. They want those beneath them to take the blame. I refuse to play along."

Sherlock imagined Vivian had little patience for interoffice politics and the passive aggressive machinations therein. He certainly couldn't envision her tiptoeing around rich men's sensitive egos. If those in upper management at Cubic Systems were smart, they'd listen to her. If not, well, he doubted the business would succeed, especially not in London's competitive market.

"Will you be spending Christmas with your family then?" John asked.

"No, I won't,” Vivian said, gaze dropping to the table. “They're all gone.”

"Gone as in dead," Sherlock supplied, in case John didn't get it, which was likely, considering his appalling memory.

John winced. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I forgot your family was…" He shook his head. "I wasn't thinking."

"Obviously," Sherlock said. Alcohol consumption and the presence of an attractive woman tended to exacerbate the problem.

Vivian reached out and patted John's hand. "Don't worry. They've been gone a long time. It's not like this is my first Christmas on my own."

"When was that?" Sherlock asked.

"I was fifteen."

He considered, then nodded. "Eighteen years. That's more than enough time to get over it."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've been kind enough to entertain Sherlock with a puzzle and treat us both to a lovely dinner, and all we've done is insult you and remind you of unhappy times. I'm so sorry."

Her smile was soft. "It's alright, honestly. I just ate a delicious meal, the wine has finally thawed the numbing cold from my limbs, and I've enjoyed both your company. There's really not much that could bother me right now."

John's troubled expression brightened. "Since we've caught you in a good mood then, how about you join us tomorrow evening for our annual Christmas party?"

She blinked, evidently surprised by the invitation, then slowly shook her head. "That's very kind, but I wouldn't want to intrude."

A crushing weight descended on Sherlock's toe. John turned to him. "Vivian wouldn't be intruding, would she?" The pressure increased.

Sherlock jerked his foot out from under John's boot and aimed a fierce kick at his shin. John grunted, then tried to cover it up with a cough.

Sherlock gave him a thin smile. "An invitation negates intrusion.”

Vivian fidgeted with her napkin. "That's very kind, but-"

"Do you have other plans?" John asked.

"Well, sort of."

"Going somewhere festive with friends?"

"No, I-"

"She's in London for work, John. And considering how often she travels, it's unlikely she has many friends at all." Sherlock eyed her. "Your plans for Christmas involve moving into your new flat and then ordering in, correct?"

She pursed her lips, then nodded.

John frowned, looking mildly offended. "You might as well eat at our flat, then. Mrs. Hudson is cooking the turkey, so that'll at least be edible."

"I couldn't possibly."

"Yes, you could. Our address is 221B Baker Street. Be there at 6:00pm. We both know you have an eidetic memory, so you can't say you forgot," John said.

Hesitation flickered across her face. "I'll think about it."

"Please do," John said, expression earnest.

Sherlock sat back in his chair. "Or better yet, just agree so John doesn't whine about it to me the rest of the evening."

Vivian laughed and picked her napkin up from the table and waved it. "Fine. I surrender. I'll come to the party."

"Brilliant," John said, looking triumphant.

Sherlock finished off his wine. Curious. He wasn't annoyed at John for inviting Vivian. Normally he did everything he could to keep their gatherings small.

_ People.  _ As a rule, he disliked them. More often than not, he despised them. But Vivian Walker wasn't people. She'd sent him a puzzle and had treated him and John to dinner. She was...tolerable.

A dull ache throbbed in his temples. He reached for his water. Clearly, he'd had too much wine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, lovely reader, are you pleased by Vivian's return? Did I make you hungry for Indian food? Please take a moment and leave me a review. Your comments are like my own special 7% solution, and your encouragement helps motivate me to write. Wish me luck on my surgery tomorrow!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated as of 12/31/16

White fairy lights twinkled and bits of tinsel shimmered among the ornaments on the Christmas tree. John smiled. He'd done a bang up job. He sat back in his chair by the fire, stomach pleasantly full from Christmas dinner. What a spread. Mrs. Hudson’s chestnut stuffed turkey, Lestrade’s brussel sprouts with bacon, and Molly’s roasted potatoes. He and Sherlock had contributed sausages and a few mince pies. Not as good as home-made, but neither of them were skilled cooks, or at least if Sherlock was, he refused to bother.

Sherlock finished playing a rousing rendition of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ on his violin, and everyone applauded.

“That was wonderful,” Mrs. Hudson said, cheeks pink.

"Just lovely," Molly agreed.

John’s mobile chimed.

_ Sorry! Nearly there. _

“She's almost here,” John called over to Sherlock. Vivian had texted him earlier saying she’d be late to the party. He’d begun to wonder whether she would show at all.

Sherlock’s hand slowed as he ran a dry cloth over his violin strings, but he made no reply.

“Someone else is coming?” Molly turned to face John, ponytail bobbing.

“Yes, Vivian Walker, a friend of ours. We met her during a case,” John said.

Mrs. Hudson frowned. “Wasn’t she the woman who drugged her husband’s tea?”

John laughed. “No, that was Valerie Cooper. Vivian is the one who walloped a murderer in the face with her cast.”

“Oh, that’s right. I remember now.”

“It was a hell of shot,” Lestrade said, grinning. “She knocked Renee’s front tooth loose.”

Mrs. Hudson set her hands on her hips. “Well, from what John told me, that awful woman deserved it.”

“And you invited her here?” Molly asked.

“Yes. She hasn’t got any family, and she was kind enough to treat us to dinner last night."

"Oh." Molly worried the hem of her jumper, and cast a furtive look at Sherlock who was busy settling his violin back in its case. 

Right. Time for a drink. John stood and went into the kitchen. Steam rose from a pot of simmering ruby liquid. He ladled the mulled wine into a mug. Cinnamon, cloves, and honey scented the air.

“She's young and pretty, isn't she?”

Molly had followed him. She wound a bit of loose yarn from the cuff of her jumper around one finger, eyes refusing to meet his. John pursed his lips. So. Definitely still carrying a torch for Sherlock, then. That took both commitment and terrible taste in men.

“She’s thirty-three.” As to the second half of Molly's question, well, there was really no safe way to answer it. It wasn't as if he could lie and say Vivian was repulsive since Molly would find out for herself soon enough. And as far as telling the truth went, well, he seriously doubted Molly really wanted to know. Or did she? Women were confusing.

“It makes sense now,” Molly said, pulling the yarn taut. “Sherlock kept sneaking glances out the window and checking the time like he was waiting for something. But he's been waiting for her, hasn't he?”

John hadn't noticed anything, but he hadn't been watching Sherlock, certainly not as closely as Molly. He handed her the glass of mulled wine since it was clear she needed it more than he did. "Look, Sherlock might have been keeping an eye out for her, but you know he's not into that sort of thing."

"Not with me."

He touched her elbow. "Not with anyone. He's happily married to his work, I promise you. There's no need to worry."

Molly blew out a breath. "You're right. I'm being silly." She shook her head and took a large swallow of wine. "Must be the holiday." 

"Christmas makes everyone barmy. My sister dressed her pet rabbit up like an elf this year, complete with fairy lights and bells." John pulled a face. "Poor little Carrot."

Molly giggled.

A triple knock carried through the flat.

John patted Molly's shoulder and left the kitchen to open the front door, but Sherlock sped past him and beat him to it. Vivian stood there with snowflakes in her red hair, and a tentative smile on her face. She cradled a large white box in her arms. "Hello."

“You’re late,” Sherlock said.

A grimace. “Sorry. Traffic was dreadful, and I had to make a stop. I wasn't about to come here empty-handed.”

Sherlock frowned. “John didn’t ask you to bring anything.”

“Oh for goodness sake, let the poor girl inside,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock stepped aside and allowed her to enter, taking the offered box from her hands.

"Glad you finally made it," John said, giving her a hug. He helped remove her coat, revealing a burgundy blouse with a sprig of holly pinned to it.

Sherlock eyed her feet. “You wore heels. In the snow.” 

“What? They're low heels, and I took a cab. I only had to walk across a bit of pavement out front.”

"That same pavement sent the last Speedy's patron to hospital with a broken hip yesterday.”

Hang on. Was Sherlock actually worried about her? John studied his friend's face, but it was difficult to see anything beneath the thick layer of ego. 

"Well, I managed to survive, hip intact, thank you." Vivian wiggled a foot. "Besides, I like these shoes. They’re festive.”

They were. Red and white stripes lined them like candy canes.

"I think they're lovely." Mrs. Hudson stepped forward, hands outstretched. "You must be Vivian."

She took them and smiled. "And you must be Mrs. Hudson."

"John's told me all about you."

“Has he now?"

Mrs. Hudson patted her cheek. "Not to worry, dear. Only good things." She disappeared into the kitchen, likely to fetch their new guest a nibble.

Sherlock smirked at Vivian. "Clearly, John hasn't told her anything at all."

"Yes, I have. It's just been a bit edited," John said.

Vivian chuckled. "That's probably for the best."

A cheerful Lestrade sauntered over and held out a steaming mug. “Hello. Something to warm you up?”

Vivian accepted it gratefully. "Good to see you again, Greg.” She took a sip, then beamed at him. "This is like Christmas in a cup! Did you make it?"

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck and grinned. "Yeah, I did actually."

"It's brilliant."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He followed his grandmother's recipe. It's not like he harvested the grapes and fermented the wine."

"Oi, shut it. You don't even make your own tea," Lestrade said.

"That's because Mrs. Hudson makes it."

John guided Vivian away from the squabble and over to the fireplace where Molly had retreated. “Allow me to introduce you to Molly Hooper.”

“Hello. I hadn't heard a thing about you until a few minutes ago," Molly said.

A short laugh. "Well, that’s a relief. There are far more interesting subjects." Vivian held out her hand. “Pleasure to meet you."

Molly took it and nodded, though the usual warmth in her kind eyes was absent. Apparently, any reassurance she'd acquired in the kitchen had evaporated upon Vivian's arrival.

John cleared his throat. "Molly is the head pathologist at St. Bart's.”

“Wow. You must be quite smart to have acquired the position at such a young age."

Molly's cool expression thawed slightly. “It became available when the previous pathologist died of a heart attack.” She paused, lips curving. “Sherlock beat his corpse with a riding crop."

Vivian’s mouth fell open. “You're joking.”

Triumph flashed in Molly's eyes, and her tone grew downright cheerful. “Not at all. Sherlock loves experimenting on corpses. He’s always after me for body parts. Thumbs, heads, hearts. John had to designate a special shelf in the fridge for him here."

John sighed. He knew what Molly was trying to do. It was both unnecessary and unlikely to work.

"Is she serious?” Vivian asked him.

“While it's all true, it’s not really the best topic right after Christmas dinner, is it?” John said.

Vivian shot a startled glance at Sherlock who was unwrapping a gift Lestrade had handed to him. The surprised expression on her face turned thoughtful. She looked back at Molly, and the corner of her mouth quirked. "Interesting. I’ll have to ask him about his experiments sometime."

Molly’s smile disappeared.

Right. So that hadn't gone to plan for her, not that John had expected it would.

Mrs. Hudson waved them over to the kitchen. "I warmed up a plate for you, dear."

Vivian took the offered food and dug into it with relish. "Thanks very much. This is gorgeous."

Lestrade tapped the white box Sherlock had taken from Vivian and set on the kitchen table earlier. “What’s inside?”

“Freshly baked pastries imported from France. Chocolate croissants, judging by the fragrance,” Sherlock said.

"Did you peek?" Vivian asked, eyes narrowed.

"As if I needed to. It's obvious."

It wasn't obvious to John. The box was completely blank, and he couldn't smell a thing except for the warm spices from the mulled wine. 

Vivian speared a slice of turkey with her fork and jabbed it at Sherlock. “You must be a terrible person to give Christmas gifts to.”

“You have no idea,” John said. "One year I glued a gift card to a brick, and Sherlock still guessed it correctly." The git.

"I assure you, there was no guessing involved."

Snickering, Vivian opened the box and folded back the white tissue, revealing large, golden croissants. Dark chocolate oozed out the ends of the pastries.

Mrs. Hudson touched one and gasped. “How are they still warm?”

“Heating packs.” Sherlock pointed at the thick padding bordering the inside of the box.

"Yes, thank God for those. The package got here late because of the weather. I was afraid it wasn't going arrive at all."

John stared at the scrumptious, flaky treats. “And they came all the way from France? That must have cost a fortune.”

Vivian shrugged and gave him a small smile. “Every Christmas, no matter where I am, I order a box of these. A bit of a splurge, but well worth it. I certainly don’t mind sharing them. Much better for my waistline.”

John’s heart twinged. No one should ever have to spend Christmas alone.

Her hand hovered above the open box. “Would any of you like one?”

A chorus of agreement followed, though Molly declined.

While Vivian handed them out, John moved his and Sherlock's chairs and one additional chair over to the coffee table in the living room, creating a rough oval shape with the sofa. Everyone settled in to enjoy their treat.

John took a bite of croissant, and the soft, buttery pastry gave way to warm, gooey chocolate. Sweet, but with just a hint of bitterness. “This is fantastic.”

"Much better than the ones at work," Lestrade said around a mouthful.

Even Sherlock appeared to enjoy his as not a single crumb was left on his plate.

After everyone finished eating, Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands. “Right. Let's open our Christmas crackers." She passed around the brightly wrapped tubes. "Cross arms with the person next to you, and let’s open them up."

Sharp pops like miniature firecrackers filled the air, and out came the gold paper crowns. Everyone put them on their heads, that is, everyone except for Sherlock, who flatly refused to play along. Every Christmas they tried to persuade, pester, and bargain with him to get him to wear the ruddy crown, but nothing had ever worked. A few years ago, they'd started a secret wager on who would finally manage it, but this year was the same as all the others, and they conceded defeat.

Vivian stacked Sherlock's crown on top of hers.

"You look like an idiot," Sherlock said, though the amusement on his face stole most of the sting from the words.

Her eyes narrowed. "Funny. You sound like one."

John laughed and raised his glass to her in salute.

Tossing a wink at him, Vivian rose from the sofa and gathered the empty plates and returned them to the kitchen. On her way back to her seat, she tiptoed up behind Sherlock with an impish smile. John held his breath as she took the extra crown and carefully held it above Sherlock's head. Ever so slowly, she began to lower it. Lestrade did his best not to react, while Mrs. Hudson masterfully continued her conversation with Molly as if nothing was amiss. Right before it could touch his hair, Sherlock's arms flew up, and he caught both her wrists. He tilted his head back to look at her. "You couldn't have been more obvious."

Vivian grinned down at him. "I'll have to try harder then."

He studied her for a moment. "You're not going to give up, are you?"

"You  _ are _ observant. You should be a detective."

"Best just surrender now, Sherlock," Lestrade called out with a chuckle.

Vivian waggled her eyebrows, smile playful. "What's it going to be, Mr. Holmes? The easy way or the hard way?"

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. Then to John's complete amazement, he released Vivian, and murmured, "Go on, then."

Her face lit up in shocked delight, and she settled the crown onto his head. The room erupted into a chorus of cheers and laughter.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This is ridiculous."

"No, this is historic," John said, gasping, trying to hold his arm still long enough to take a photo with his mobile. This was going on the blog.

"And hysterical," Mrs. Hudson added, wiping at her eyes.

"Promise me you'll come back next Christmas," Lestrade said to Vivian, slapping his leg in glee.

John's mirth faded when he caught sight of Molly's pinched expression. She looked like she wanted to perform a live autopsy on Vivian. "Right, let's not forget the toys in our crackers." Hopefully there was nothing sharp in Molly's.

Tissue flew and they all examined the cheap toys hidden inside. John got a key chain, Molly a bookmark, Mrs. Hudson a paperweight, Lestrade a pair of dice, Vivian a magnifying glass, and Sherlock a bracelet.

"Here." Sherlock offered it to Vivian.

She smiled and slipped the bangle onto her wrist. “Cheers.”

He reached for her plastic magnifying glass, but she snatched it away. “Oi, I didn’t say I’d trade.”

“Fine. The one I own is better quality anyhow.”

“Good.” Vivian examined the wood grain of the coffee table with her new toy. “I haven’t had one of these in ages. I used to burn ants in the garden with it.”

"That’s barbaric," Molly muttered.

John snickered. He used to do the same thing.

Mrs. Hudson removed a slip of paper from her Christmas Cracker. "Joke time!” She nodded at Vivian. “Why don’t you go first, dear?"

Sherlock rose to his feet, crumpled tissue in one hand. "Let's forget the jokes."

Lestrade frowned. "But we do them every year."

“Yes, and this year I wore the stupid crown. It's a fair trade.” Sherlock shot John a pointed look. "I doubt Vivian would enjoy  _ reading _ the jokes. I certainly don't enjoy hearing them."

John blinked at the odd phrasing. Then it hit him, and he had the overwhelming urge to stick his head in the oven, or perhaps crawl inside it. He'd completely forgotten about Vivian's reading disability. My God. He was a moron. And Sherlock of all people had been the one to anticipate the problem and try to fix it. He cleared his throat. "I agree with Sherlock. They’re rather silly. Let's skip it."

Mrs. Hudson’s face fell. "I don’t understand. You love the jokes." 

His stomach twisted. “Yes, well-”

"Perhaps he's maturing." Sherlock reached for the crackers on the coffee table, but Vivian laid a hand on his arm. "It's alright. No need to make a fuss. We can do the jokes." 

Sherlock eyed her for a moment, then drew back, resuming his seat. "Fine. The sooner it’s over, the better."

Mrs. Hudson was all smiles once again. "I knew you wouldn't let these two Grinches ruin our Christmas."

Vivian unrolled the slip of paper inside her cracker, then shot a small grin at the group. “I actually don't mind punny jokes, as long as it's only once a year."

John stared at her. How was she going to read it?

Her eyes flicked across the paper, then she looked up. “What did Santa say to the smoker?”

“I’ve no idea,” Lestrade said, already grinning.

“What’d he say?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Please don’t smoke; it’s bad for my elf.”

Mrs. Hudson giggled, and Lestrade groaned.

John chuckled through his surprise. How had she done it?

Vivian set the slip of paper onto the coffee table. "Who's next?"

The rest of the jokes were just as bad as Vivian’s, if not worse. Right as they finished the last one, John's mobile buzzed.

_ I managed to catch an earlier flight, love. The pilot made it through a gap in the storm. Come meet me and head back to my place? _

John’s heart leapt.

_ On my way. _

He stood, warmth filling him at the thought of spending the rest of the holiday with her. "Abigail is back early. I'd best head out now before the weather worsens." John hugged Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Vivian and nodded to Lestrade and Sherlock. "Happy Christmas, everyone." He grabbed his coat and overnight bag, and headed out the door.

 

*******

 

Sherlock looked up from adjusting the new microscope lens John had given him for Christmas. The tendons in his neck twinged, and he tilted his head back. Quiet reigned throughout the flat. It appeared everyone had gone home. Not that he minded. Goodbyes were tedious.

He checked his watch. It was nearly ten o'clock. He stood from the kitchen table and stretched, then walked into the living room.

He stopped and stared.

Vivian sat on the sofa, a line etched between her brows as she fiddled with the Rubik's cube Lestrade had gifted him earlier. Realizing anything average would have held little challenge for him, Lestrade had purchased a special version. This one had LED squares. When different parts of the cube were twisted, the grid colors changed.

Vivian shifted one face of the cube, and a side that had matched, suddenly morphed. “Bloody hell.”

He held out a hand. "Give it here."

She heaved a sigh and passed it over to him. “It's driving me mad."

He rotated each row and column, noting how the colors changed. “Twenty face turns are required at most to solve a normal cube. This one is more complex.” Each quarter turn shifted the LED lights. Despite this seemingly erratic element, there was a discernible pattern. He turned each section this way and that, and with a final twist of his wrist, the Rubik’s cube sides all matched. The lights on it brightened for a moment, then the cube went dark.

A disbelieving laugh. “I've been at that for over an hour."

He tossed it up in the air and caught it. "Solving it required a simple application of Korf’s algorithm."

“Simple. Right.” She stood, grabbed her coat off the hook and slipped it on. “At least I can go to sleep now knowing it’s complete.”

He nodded. There was nothing worse than an unfinished puzzle. He followed her to the door.

She wound her scarf around her neck. “Thank you for tonight.”

His grip tightened on the cube. It wasn’t as if he'd invited her. “That was John’s doing, not mine.”

“You could have said no.”

“I saw no reason to. And as expected, your presence here didn’t negatively impact the evening’s events.”

"Are you sure? I did make you wear the paper crown," she said with a teasing smile.

"Nobody makes me do anything," he said, voice firm. He tossed the Rubik's cube to the side, and it landed on the coffee table among the party debris. "A bet has been going on for years about who would be the one to finally get me to wear it. This way nobody won."

"Clever."

"I always am." 

“Modest, too." She shook her head. "While I know you weren't the one who invited me, you still allowed me into your home and made me feel welcome here. It's been a long time since I spent the holiday with anyone. Tonight was really lovely. So, thanks.”

It hadn't been that long since Sherlock had been alone himself. The lack of crime during the holidays had bothered him more back then, the itching feeling of wanting to be busy nearly intolerable when paired with the hollow silence of his old flat. He found himself grateful for what he had now. “You’re welcome. I'm certain you'll receive an invitation again next year.”

She beamed at him. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

His mouth curved of its own accord. "Happy Christmas."

Then the power went out.

He blinked. Somehow Vivian's smile was still imprinted on his retinas like the after burn from ignited magnesium. The only illumination now came from the gas fire, a living flicker of gold and yellow against the walls.

"Well, that was unexpected," she said.

"Yes." Even he couldn't have anticipated the power outage.

The loss of light heightened his other senses, and the sweet scent of jasmine teased his nose. Vivian's perfume. An unsettling sensation squirmed in his stomach. He shouldn’t have eaten that second chocolate croissant earlier. He grabbed his torch from the pocket of his coat where it hung from the hook. Flicking on the light, he opened the door. “I’ll follow you out and flip the breaker.”

They made their way downstairs, and she waited while he opened the electrical box near the entryway. He flipped the switch. Nothing happened.

“That’s not good,” she said.

"Like John, you have a gift for stating the obvious.” He walked past her and opened the outside door. Icy wind buffeted him, sending a flurry of snowflakes into his face.

“Oh,” Vivian breathed from beside him.

The few cars that had been parked along the road were now misshapen blobs. Heaping piles of snow covered the ground. The city that never slept stretched dark and cold before them.

"It's so quiet," Vivian whispered. "I don't even hear any buzzing."

Buzzing? He never heard any buzzing. "With the electricity out, the tube will be down. And no cabbie is going to risk driving the streets in this weather. Come back inside. I've got a battery-powered wireless. They’ll be broadcasting a report."

She followed him back upstairs and into the flat.

He brought the wireless into the living room, turned it on, and cycled through the stations.

"This is the emergency alert system. A National Grid failure has affected Central London and the surrounding areas. Both rail services and the underground are inoperable at this time. Please remain inside and stay off the roads. More updates to follow," a computerized voice said. The message repeated.

Vivian hung her coat and scarf on the hook. “I guess you’ll have to put up with me for a bit longer, then.”

Sherlock shrugged. "At least it’s only you."

A flash of white teeth. “Compliment?”

"Never."

"Just for that, I’m going to steal your seat." She plopped down in his leather chair in front of the fire.

His eyes narrowed. "What if I were to offer you tea?"

Vivian scoffed. "Please. You’re going to have to do better than that."

"How about the last of Mrs. Hudson’s ginger biscuits?" John had thought he was being sneaky when he'd squirreled them away beneath the kitchen sink.

Although shadows danced across her face, they weren’t enough to hide her elated expression. "Deal." She switched to John’s seat.

He shook his head. "You’re far too easy."

She gaped at him, then burst into laughter, her merriment bright and unfettered. “You are the first man to ever say that to me.”

He took a step back, uncertain of how to respond. Women were odd. “I’ll go make tea.”

When he returned to the living room, tray in hand, she’d slid to the floor, her back against the front of John’s chair, bare feet stretched out toward the fire.

He handed her a teacup, and her expression turned wary.

"What? You don't trust me?"

"No, not really." She sniffed at it, and startled green eyes met his. “There’s whisky in this.”

“Yes, a hot toddy is known to contain alcohol. What else have I put in it?”

Her nose dipped down. “Lemon, cinnamon, and honey.” She paused, brow furrowed. "And a touch of cloves?”

Impressive. “Yes. Rest assured the level of sweetness is the equivalent to one sugar cube.” He hadn't realized he'd kept her preference in his Mind Palace until he'd gone to make the tea. Useless information, really. He should delete it.

She took a swallow, then smiled. “Thanks, it’s very good. Especially considering you don't ever make your own tea.”

“I have a Master's degree in chemistry. Tea is child's play." He sipped at his own drink, and the whisky sent a trail of warmth through his chest.

A ginger biscuit disappeared past Vivian's lips, and she let out a happy hum. Her bare toes curled, kneading into the carpet like a satisfied cat. He wondered what food might make her purr. Heat crawled up the back of his neck and around his throat, and he tugged at the front of his shirt. Looking away from her, he forcibly removed the irrational thought from his mind. 

After polishing off another biscuit, she glanced over at him. “I usually clean house around this time.” She tapped the side of her temple. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not. Mind Palace maintenance is important.” He was pleased she was making it a priority.

Once her eyes fluttered shut, he reached for the latest issue of  _ New Science _ . 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, loves! Please leave me a review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated as of 12/31/16

Sherlock glanced over at Vivian. Her breathing was deep and steady. A faint flicker of movement stirred beneath her eyelids, reminiscent of REM sleep. Good. She'd grown much faster at achieving the necessary trance-like state now. The firelight illuminated the deep red undertones in her hair, nearly a perfect match to burning lithium chloride. The salt crystal compound was useful for extracting RNA, but dangerously toxic to the nervous system.

He returned his attention to the magazine, but after a few paragraphs his gaze was inexplicably drawn back to her again. John never sat on the floor like that. He always sat in his chair, feet flat on the ground or with one foot across his knee, hands neatly folded.

Not so with Vivian. She sat propped up against the base of the chair with her head resting back against the cushion, her pale throat exposed, vulnerable. Her open posture indicated she felt safe here - with him. The realization was oddly gratifying.

Her knees were drawn up to her chest, and though she appeared quiet and curled in on herself, she was hardly contained. The sheer warmth of her presence filled the room, sending a peculiar awareness pricking along his skin. It was distracting. Disconcerting.

Restless, he set the magazine down and retreated to the safety of the kitchen. He paced within the small space. What was his problem? The strange disquiet quivering at his insides couldn't possibly be caused by Vivian. She wasn't doing anything. He halted mid-step.

The problem wasn't Vivian at all - it was him. He needed a case. He needed work.

Yes. That had to be it. The little mystery from last night and the busyness of the holiday had distracted him until now. If no one was violently murdered soon, he'd have to resort to Lestrade's cold case files which weren't nearly as fun. He sighed. In the meantime, a temporary fix would have to suffice.

He lit one of the gas burners and fixed his gaze on the steady blue flame. With each exhale, he sent the simmering agitation inside him toward the fire. After several long moments the unsettling feeling receded, and cool control took its place.

He straightened. Much better. He should have completed the exercise yesterday after the dinner with Vivian, but he’d put it off. Foolish of him. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again. After flicking off the burner, he returned to his seat in the living room. His gaze landed on Vivian's bare feet. Her toes were painted a glittering green. Another festive touch.

She opened her eyes and shot him an accusatory frown. Suddenly it was very much like sitting beside John.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re messing with my Mind Palace.”

“I was in the kitchen.”

“No, not here. In my head.” She threw up her hands. “You emptied a conversation shelf in the library and moved it somewhere else. And now there’s a new door and you won’t let me open it.”

His chest tightened, sealing off his breath. She couldn't possibly mean what he thought she did. "What are you talking about?”

She looked at him like he was mental. “I'm talking about you, in my Mind Palace, messing things up. Now, how can I fix you?”

Fix him? None of this made any sense at all. "Why on earth am I in your Mind Palace?”

Her brows drew together. “You told me the library was the foundation center and to anchor it with something significant.”

“I meant significant like your favorite childhood toy, the scent of your mother’s perfume, or your diploma, not a  _ person _ .”

She gaped at him. “What? You mean there aren’t any people in your Mind Palace?”

“No, that's mad. The mere suggestion is ludicrous." He wouldn't have thought it possible to add people, and yet here they were. His stomach clenched. The potential consequences for what she'd done were staggering.

Vivian's arms tightened around her knees. "I - I didn't realize. What am I supposed to do now? Delete you?”

" _ No, _ " he said, voice sharp. The word burst out of him faster than thought. While he wasn't entirely certain of how to proceed, some primal part of him knew that method was wrong and had reacted instinctively. He took a steadying breath. "If I’m anchoring your Mind Palace, then removing me could endanger the whole structure.” What he needed now was more information. “Tell me exactly what I’ve been doing.”

She brushed a wisp of hair out of her face. “Well, most of the time you sit in the library reading and ignoring me, but earlier this week I noticed you stacking boxes in the corner. When I asked about them, you told me to stop pestering you and to go make myself useful in the kitchen.” A small scowl. “You’re quite rude, really.”

“I’m hardly responsible for your mind’s manifestation of me. What happened tonight?"

"The boxes were gone and so was an entire conversation shelf in the library. I couldn't find them anywhere. When I went back down the hallway, there was a new door." Confusion clouded her face. "It looked like the same door from an old house I used to live in. When I tried to open it, you appeared and said it wasn't ready and told me to shove off."

Relief washed over him. Their situation wasn't as dire as he'd thought, in fact, some of it was even to be expected. "One answer is clear. The structure of your Mind Palace is organic. It grows on its own. When your rooms become full, your brain creates new ones utilizing architecture that is well known to you, in this case, a former home. Currently, your mind is telling you that the new room isn’t ready for use yet and to stay away.”

"Will having you as my anchor be a problem?"

His mind raced through various possibilities, holding onto some and discarding others. "At this point, it's too soon to tell. I want you to monitor my activity within your Mind Palace, and give me a daily report. Inform me immediately if anything unusual occurs."

"Alright. What about the empty conversation shelf?"

“While I can't be certain yet, I believe your Mind Palace version of me emptied the shelf's contents into the boxes and is now integrating them into your new room." He paused. "It appears you're using me as an organizational tool.”

She snickered. “I made you my housekeeper.”

His lips twitched. Mrs. Hudson would have been duly shocked. "In a crude manner of speaking, yes."

Another concern rose to the surface. He had no idea how additional people would impact her Mind Palace. It could prove problematic. “Who else is in your Mind Palace? John?”

A huff of laughter. “No, not John.” The humor on her face dimmed, and she looked away, fiddling with the hem of her blue jeans. “There’s only you.”

The steady rise and fall of his chest ceased and an unexplained warmth uncurled inside him. He'd assumed she'd added more people after him, but she hadn't. "I wouldn't recommend adding anyone else."

"I wasn't about to," she said quietly, hand dropping from her hem.

Curiosity nipped at him. No good could come from continuing the conversation. The fact that he wanted to know at all was alarming in and of itself. His gaze swept around the room, and he tapped out a rat-a-tat rhythm against the leather arm of the chair. In the end, he couldn’t help himself. “Why me?”

She tensed, toes flexing hard against the carpet.

As the minutes crept past, he began to wonder if she'd ever reply. Finally, a heavy sigh left her mouth, and she rested her chin on her knees, dark eyes fixed on the flames. “I was a stranger to you, and you still helped me. Even when I didn’t want to be saved - when I'd already given up hope, you refused to give up on me. I consider that significant.”

“Oh.” The single, inane word was all he could manage. He was far more accustomed to being appreciated for solving a murder than directly helping a person. And helping Vivian had been unique for him in more ways than one.

The corner of her mouth tilted up, and she looked over at him. "Also, since I was half-starved and you were right there in front of me, I figured using you would be easiest."

He shook his head, amused despite himself. "Taking short-cuts when building a Mind Palace is never a good idea."

A sniff. "Neither is throwing me into a muddy pond."

He lifted his teacup in salute. "T ouché ."

She smiled, and they lapsed into a comfortable silence.

 

*******

 

Sherlock blinked up at the ceiling. Why was he in the living room? The shush of a page turning chased away the fog of sleep.

The power outage.

Vivian had moved onto John's chair, sitting properly this time. A book sat open in her lap, and a small stack rested at her feet. White teeth nibbled at her bottom lip as she stared at a page that was tilted toward the fire. She winced and rubbed at her temple.

“What are you doing?”

The book jerked, nearly tumbling to the floor, and startled green eyes met his. "Oh. You're awake."

He lifted a brow. "No, I'm talking in my sleep with my eyes open. Don’t mind me.”

"Alright then." She nodded and resumed her perusal of the book.

Sherlock watched her for a long moment, nonplussed. "Really though. What are you doing?" He knew she couldn't possibly be reading anything.

"Shhh. You're sleeping, remember?"

"Haha. Very cheeky."

She didn't respond.

His eyes narrowed. She was really going to make him say it, wasn't she? He huffed out a breath. "I'm awake now."

"Oh good." She raised her head, and her eyes glinted with mischief. "Did you know you talk in your sleep?"

A reluctant chuckle burst out of him, and she grinned.

He shook his head. "Will you tell me what you're doing now?"

"I promise I’m not snooping."

"Obviously, since you're illiterate."

She flinched, then snapped the book shut. "I'm not illiterate."

"You're lying.” He removed the slip of paper from his pocket and held up the damning evidence. “You clearly still are or you wouldn’t have had to recall a joke you’d heard and use it for your Christmas cracker instead of reading the one provided.” Rather resourceful of her though.

Her lips compressed into a thin line. "I know how to read."

"And yet you’re incapable of it. By definition, that makes you illiterate."

"And by definition, you’re an arsehole."

The pillow from John's chair struck him in the face.

Indignation burned through him, and he sprang to his feet. "Why are you always throwing things at me?"

“Why are you always so insulting?” Fury flashed in her eyes as she stood. “It’s obvious John hasn’t had much luck telling you when you’re being rude. I honestly don’t think words are enough to permeate your thick skull.”

"I don't care if I'm rude."

She picked up the fallen pillow and advanced on him, tendrils of red hair framing her scowling face. “You should care, because sometimes there are consequences.”

He grabbed the pillow off his chair just in time to block her next attack. Darting backward, he retreated behind the coffee table, and looked down his nose at her. “I refuse to brawl with you.”

“Fine. You’re more than welcome to stand there while I wallop you.” Her mouth twisted into a mocking smile. “John’s not here to save you this time.”

Something white hot flared inside him, and the cool calm he'd secured earlier turned to ash. His eyes narrowed, and he adjusted his feet into a more defensive stance. “The bedrooms are off limits. No destroying books.”

“No biting or hair pulling.”

“As if I’d stoop to such a level.” He leapt onto the coffee table, scattering the party debris, and took a swing at her face. His pillow smacked her cheek, and she reeled back.

“Lucky shot,” she snapped, backing toward the kitchen.

“Not lucky. Clever.” He hopped down and took off after her. She led him on a dizzying chase round the kitchen table. And then again. On their third circuit, she jerked a chair into his path, and he stumbled into it. She threw a wicked grin over her shoulder at him. Growling, he put on a burst of speed, and she shrieked and sprinted for the living room. With the electricity out, she didn't see the Rubik's cube he'd knocked off the coffee table. Her bare foot landed on it, and she tripped. Hurtling toward the floor, she tucked into herself and executed a perfect forward roll, landing in a crouched position. He gaped at her, barely managing to shut his mouth before she turned around.

“Don't tell me you learned that in kick-boxing class,” he said.

“That was gymnastics. Would you like a brochure?”

“No, thank you.”

Vivian bit her lip, eyeing the pillow she'd dropped during her fall. It sat near his foot, far out of her reach. He bent down and picked it up, then kicked the Rubik's cube beneath the coffee table where it wouldn't interfere. It occurred to him then that he could bring their little fight to an end here and now. But to his surprise, he found he didn't want to.

He tossed the pillow to her. "Ready?"

She caught it and threw him a blazing grin. "Always."

"Excellent." He lunged for her.

Their brawl resumed in earnest, and they wove through the furniture, pillows flashing. She caught him in the back of the head, and he smacked her lower back twice in revenge. Breathless with laughter, she ran away from him. Her bare feet danced across the floor in time with his, fluid grace meeting economy of motion.

Pulse hammering, he jumped over the arm of his leather chair and launched off the bottom cushion, ploughing straight into Vivian. Limbs flailing, they crashed onto John’s chair.

Any previous fighting finesse was discarded.

She pummeled his neck, chest, and side with a pillow. He winced as her wrist hit him in the kidney. He drew back and caught her in the stomach, and the air whooshed out of her, her breath warm and smelling of tea. He waited a second for her to recover, then smacked her again. Feathers exploded from his weapon, and the recoil sent most of them into his face. He sputtered, and she took full advantage of his distraction.

Wrenching herself up, she locked her knees around his waist. With only his upper back on the cushion of John’s chair, his legs couldn’t find any purchase. There was only one thing for it. Still clutching his pillow, he wrapped his arm around her waist and yanked them both over the side of the chair. They careened into the side table and crashed to the floor.

Glass shattered.

He froze, partially on top of her, his nose in her hair. Crushed jasmine assaulted his senses. It took him a moment to realize she wasn’t moving.

He rose up on one arm. Was she injured? The teapot lay broken near her head. He recalled now that their discarded tray had been on the side table. His torn pillow hid most of her face from view. He moved it aside.

“Vivian?”

She remained still, eyes shut, face slack. Feathers clung to her hair and skin. Her breath sent a few fluttering into the air. At least she was still breathing. His chest tightened. Something dark stained the side of her head. He reached out a hand and brushed it with his fingertips. A sigh left him. Her hair was wet, but with lukewarm tea, not blood.

Her eyes snapped open, and she smirked. “Got you.” The discarded pillow slapped him in the face.

He flinched back, elbow slipping, and collapsed back onto her. Her sweet fragrance engulfed him again, but this time her entire body shook with laughter. He raised himself up on his forearms and stared down at her, for once at a loss.

Shoulders quivering, she whooped aloud. “God, your face! That was priceless, just priceless.”

He shook his head. She’d bested him, had faked being knocked unconscious to win. The sheer deviousness was, well, admirable. Part of him wanted to take the pillow and smother her with it.

“You’ve got feathers all over you.” She plucked one off his forehead and twirled it in front of his nose, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

His lips curved at the pure, unbridled delight emanating from her. “You’re one to talk. You look like you had a row with a goose.”

“I did.” She snickered, then lapsed into giggles.

This time, he couldn’t help but join in. He rolled off her and onto his back, chuckling.

After a long, breathless moment, she sat up, sending a cloud of feathers floating about. Her gleeful expression faltered, replaced with one of horror. “Oh my God. I broke your teapot.”

He sat up against the side of John’s chair and snorted. “I can ring Lestrade, if you want to confess.”

“We're British! Breaking a teapot is no laughing matter.”

“Did you hit your head?”

She frowned. “No, my shoulder took most of the impact. Why?”

“Because your memory is shoddy.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You didn’t break the teapot. We did.” He did throw her into it, after all.

A grateful smile spread across her face. “I can replace it.”

“Don’t bother. I’m sure we’ve got an extra one around here, and if not, Mrs. Hudson certainly does.”

“Let me at least clean it up.”

He caught her arm. “Wait.” He reached beneath John’s chair and retrieved her heels. “While I wouldn’t consider these proper footwear, they’ll at least protect your feet.”

“Ta.” She slipped them on, then bent to pick up the shards of glass.

He righted the side table and recovered their cups and tray, miraculously unharmed. There was little point in cleaning up the feathers without proper lighting. Mrs. Hudson would take care of it anyhow. He binned the shredded pillow, then handed Vivian his torch so she could clean up in the loo. A damp kitchen towel removed most of the feathers from his clothes and hair. When he returned to the living room, he found Vivian shelving the books she’d had stacked beside John’s chair.

She trailed her fingertips across one cover. "You asked me what I was doing earlier...I was trying to read." Her perfect posture broke, shoulders slumping. “I never really appreciated it - reading. I hated schoolwork. I wanted to be outdoors instead, running about in the sunshine." Her voice hitched. "But now I realize I’ve lost something precious, and I don’t think I’ll ever get it back.”

He took a wary step forward. He’d seen her rage in vibrant fury. He'd seen her exhausted, yet still defiant. He'd seen her moan in delight over a meal, but he’d never seen her like this. She stood before him, a woman wounded, with grief written in the lines of her face.

“Audiobooks aren’t the same, not with some stranger’s intolerable voice in my head." She shut her eyes as if in physical pain.

The genuine horror of her disability cut into him then. He swallowed. If he were injured one day and couldn't read anymore, it would be like losing a lung. Unbearable. Always gasping for air, but forever short of breath.

His chest tightened, and he gritted his teeth. If this was empathy, he despised it.

She held up a leather tome and angled it toward the firelight. “Is this one any good?”

Before he could reply, she returned it to the shelf and let out a broken laugh. “Forget it. I’m only torturing myself.” She sank into John’s chair, and rubbed a hand across her eyes.

The ache in his chest turned to ice, then plummeted into his stomach.

He should never have called her illiterate.

He felt like a novice chemist who had mixed water with potassium, then been shocked by the violent explosion. Vivian had been right. He should care, because sometimes there were consequences. For every action there was an equal and opposite reaction. He’d thought their fight, if he could call it that, had been the end of it, but no, his labeling of her as illiterate had resulted in a deeper consequence. He'd hurt her.

His careless words had rubbed raw an already gaping wound. Unsure what do or how to make it better, he stalled for time and gestured at the book she'd asked about. “This one is good, but it all depends on what you like.”

“I only ever read when I was forced to, never for pleasure." She shook her head. "I've no idea what I like.”

His breath caught. So many possibilities. He whipped around, removed the books she’d shelved and returned to his chair, anticipation sparking through his veins. “Then let’s find out.”

Her eyebrows rose high on her forehead. “You're going to read to me?”

His fingers halted on the first page of  _ Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner _ . He hesitated. Was she insulted? That hadn’t been his intent. A darker thought reared its ugly head. “I intended to, that is, unless you find my voice intolerable as well.”

She stared at him. “You must be joking.”

His insides twisted at her incredulous tone, and he shut the book. “Never mind. It was merely an idea to pass the time.”

Her arm shot out. “No, wait. I only meant you must be joking about your voice, not about reading to me.”

“What?” He frowned. What did she mean by that?

She sighed. "Just ignore what I said. Please, will you read to me?”

He eyed her. Genuine interest filled her face, a welcome change from her distressed expression from before. "Fine." He opened the book, and began to read.

“Poachers, idlers, thimble riggers, skittle sharks, horse-stealers and thieves of every description rub shoulders in this book with the nobility of Europe. Meet them all through the eyes of Henry Goddard. Meet Tiger Tom, so called in consequence of his enormous strength, that he could without difficulty take a man of ordinary size by the waistband of his trousers with his teeth and run around the room carrying him thus, as a cat would carry a mouse.”

She snickered, and his lips curved. He read a bit more, then switched to  _ Paradise Postponed. _ She grimaced, so he moved on. Her nose wrinkled at  _ Signature Killers _ , she sighed over  _ Man’s Fate _ , and blinked at him sleepily when he read from  _ Industrial Gases _ .

Then he selected  _ Ode to a Nightingale _ by John Keats.

“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk…”

She went still, and her eyes fell shut. One hand gripped the arm of her chair.

He'd found it.

_ Poetry. _

It spoke to her, like science and forensics did to him.

When he finished the poem, she stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide with wonder.

“I didn’t know it could be like that,” she whispered.

He nodded, then read to her until she fell asleep.

 

*******

 

When next he woke, dawn sent pink and gold in through the windows, and the fairy lights sparkled in the tree. A low hum emanated from the fridge in the kitchen. The electricity was back on. A blanket lay across his lap. One he hadn’t put there. The muscles in his neck protested as he lifted his head. John’s chair was empty, and Vivian's coat and scarf were missing from the hook.

She was gone.

Chill air brushed the back of his neck despite the warmth from the low-burning gas fire. The poetry book he'd read to her rested on the side table. On top of it was a note.

 

_ Sherlock, _

_ I didn’t want to disturb you, so I let myself out. Thank you for a lovely Christmas and for your company during the power outage. We should do it again some time. _

_ -Vivian _

_ P.S. I’m terribly sorry about your teapot. Buy yourself a new one with my winnings. _

 

What winnings? Beneath the letter was a wad of notes and his gold paper crown. A smile slowly spread across his face, and he chuckled. He'd thought he'd outwitted the group's wager by allowing Vivian to put the crown on his head, but apparently she'd joined the betting pool. He probably had John to thank for that.

Next to the crown lay the toy magnifying glass from her Christmas cracker. He spun it between his fingertips, and the morning light caught on it, reflecting onto the mess of feathers and debris from the party scattered about the room.

He realized now that their brawl hadn’t really been one at all. While it may have been sparked by anger, somehow it had morphed into play.

He'd had  _ fun _ .

He replayed their fight frame by frame. A flash of pale skin. The satisfaction in taking her by surprise. Wild red hair. Spilled tea and fresh jasmine. Vivian’s victorious grin.

Pain abruptly stabbed at his temples. He clenched his jaw against the discomfort. His fingers tightened on the magnifying glass, and the cheap plastic creaked.

He centered himself, cleared his thoughts, and exhaled slowly.

Another breath in. And out again.

The pain dulled, and the knot of tension inside him eased. It was only a headache. Everyone had one from time to time. He stood and pocketed the magnifying glass.

Now, where did John keep the Paracetamol?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my dears, what did you think? Did Vivian teach Sherlock a lesson? What will John think of the mess? Please leave me a review! If you'd like to hear Sherlock reading Ode to a Nightingale please go here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cm0eU18AeNU


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, my fellow Sherlockians! I've updated and revised the first four chapters, so you'll want to read those before this one. I'll be posting a new chapter every Saturday. If you're interested, I'm also on Wattpad. Conversations are a bit easier over there, but I'm always happy to reply to comments on AO3.

 

An icy gust of wind shot down the damp, debris-riddled alley. While the weather had thankfully warmed up enough to melt the snow they'd received on Christmas, it was still bloody cold. John hunkered down in his coat, hands shoved deep inside his pockets.

The chill remained.

Dark eyelashes rested against wrinkled cheeks. Chapped lips were parted as if in surprise, the elderly woman's face tilted up toward the steel grey sky. Short, curly hair fluttered in the breeze.

John released a heavy sigh.

A dead body on New Year's Eve.

God. He didn’t envy Lestrade having to inform the family. The woman looked like she could have been someone’s grandmother, or one of Mrs. Hudson’s friends.

Happy New Year, indeed.

Sherlock crouched beside the body, unaware or uncaring that the hem of his Belstaff coat dipped into a puddle behind him.

"Cause of death?" John asked.

After scribbling something on his notepad, Lestrade looked up, his mouth a grim line. "Somebody bashed in the back of her head."

Right. Well, at least it sounded like it had been a quick death then. “Who found her?”

Lestrade nodded at a door with purple peeling paint. “The janitor for Club 33. Young bloke. Says he nearly tripped over her on his way out to the rubbish bin early this morning.”

Two black plastic bags lay on the ground by the woman’s feet.

“We’d have been here sooner, but the emergency dispatcher had difficulty understanding the kid’s terrified gibbering. A hell of a wake-up call, yeah?”

Poor kid. Stumbling across a dead body was horrifying at any time of day. “I’d rather wake up to a hot cuppa, thank you.”

A snort sounded, proving Sherlock was still following the conversation despite his laser-like focus on the body. “No, you wouldn’t. A corpse is much better."

Now, that was completely mad, not to mention borderline treasonous. “A corpse is not better than a hot cup of tea.”

“Then why did you abandon yours to follow me here?”

The protest died on John's lips. They'd both dropped everything the moment Lestrade had called. A growl emanated from John's stomach. He'd left his breakfast behind too. Beans and toast tended not to travel well.

Sergeant Donovan approached, her posture taut with irritation, which was no more than her usual manner. “Mr. Evans said he didn’t check to see if the woman was alive before running for the phone. Also, the security cameras on the walls of the building are all fake. The owner didn’t want to pay for real ones.”

“Right, well that's helpful,” Lestrade muttered, brown eyes cutting to Sherlock. “Got anything?”

“Don’t I always?”

The toe of Donovan's shoe beat an agitated rhythm against the pavement. "Instead of feeding your ego and wasting our time, why not tell us something useful?"

"Certainly." Removing his magnifying glass from his coat pocket, Sherlock continued his perusal of the body. “Your application for advancement at Scotland Yard will be denied. Perhaps you should consider directing traffic instead. It’s really more your area.”

Fists clenching, Donovan jerked forward a step and snarled. "If you've done anything to endanger my chances, I swear I'll-"

A low chuckle echoed off the alley walls. "Oh please. You're more than capable of endangering your chances all on your own, _Sergeant_." The last word came out sounding less like an honorific and more like a hideous fungus found lurking between someone's toes.

“You arrogant, manky maggot. You bloody _freak_.” If the snow hadn't already melted, Donovan's steady stream of scathing epithets would have done the trick. Her elbow drew back as if she were about to take a swing at Sherlock.

"Easy." Lestrade placed a quelling hand on her arm. "Why don't you go canvass the area and see if there are any other witnesses?"

Managing a stiff nod, Donovan spun on her heel and stalked back down the alley.

"Was that really necessary?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. I can only handle so much stupid."

John had little sympathy for the woman. The surly Sergeant went out of her way to antagonize Sherlock. While John was fully aware that a number of people disliked his friend, very few were as hateful as Sally Donovan.

John knelt beside the dead woman, and the damp seeped into the knees of his trousers. A brown hand bag lay a short distance away. Lipstick, a pair of reading glasses, a small box of pseudoephedrine, and a handful of butterscotch candies spilled out of it. “Any ID?”

“Not even a library card,” Lestrade said.

“Do you think it was an attempted mugging gone wrong?”

“It would appear that way,” Sherlock said, his tone as bland as his expression.

If John had learned one thing from his friend, it was not to take anything at face value. “Go on then, tell us what you’ve found.”

“You first.”

“So you can mock me? Absolutely not.”

"Coward." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Lestrade? Any astute observations you’d care to share, or would you prefer not to try at all?”

Lestrade's gaze bounced around the alley. “She doesn’t belong here,” he muttered.

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, really? Do tell.”

“There’s only night clubs and bars along this street and everyone knows Stratford is a magnet for muggers, pickpockets, and thieves.”

“So?”

“She’s at least seventy-five years old. She’s got on heavy work boots, wool trousers, and the tackiest New Year's jumper I’ve ever seen. Doesn't really fit in here, does she?”

A row of mutilated looking fireworks meandered across the front of the red jumper, if they could even be called fireworks. They were more like neon green blobs with noodle arms.

“John has one worse than that,” Sherlock said.

“I do not. My gran knits lovely geometric patterns, not blobby whatever those are. Whoever made this wasn’t very good. The stitches aren’t even.” Guilt pricked at him. “Not that I’m insulting her, if she was the one who made it. Maybe she was learning.”

“Or blind,” Sherlock said.

“My point is that no elderly woman with any sense would set foot within this ten kilometer radius of East London. She had no reason to be here," Lestrade said.

Sherlock turned the woman's head to the side. Jelly-like blood oozed from a massive wound on the back of her head.

Peering closer, John frowned. “That’s odd.”

“What’s odd?” Lestrade asked.

“The blood. It's not clotted.” John slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves, gaze moving from the woman's head to her hands. The joints of her fingers were stiff to the touch, her arms the same. Beyond progressive rigor mortis then.

“Tilt her on her side, please, away from me."

Gripping the body's shoulder, Sherlock eased her over.

John raised the hem of the woman's jumper and shirt. The olive skin of her lower back appeared normal, the flesh unmarked. He nodded, and Sherlock laid the woman back down.

Lifting the front of her clothing revealed a wide purplish red stain stretching across her abdomen and creeping up toward her chest. He pressed a thumb against the tissue below her ribs and let go. No change.

“Well?” Lestrade asked as John tugged the woman's shirt back into place.

“Right, well, first off, she was originally face down when she died.”

“How do you reckon?” Lestrade asked.

“The discoloration on her stomach is due to livor mortis. When the heart stops, circulation ceases, and blood pools in the tissue due to gravity. Secondly, the head injury didn't kill her." John pointed a gloved finger at the perimeter of the wound. "See how there isn't any swelling around the tissue and how the blood isn't clotted? These are classic signs of postmortem injuries."

"Hang on. You're saying someone smashed her head in _after_ she died?" At John's nod, Lestrade grimaced. "That's bloody vicious if you ask me. Any idea what killed her?”

"It's difficult to say since there aren't any other indications of trauma. An autopsy will better determine the cause of death."

In one smooth movement, Sherlock rose to his feet. "Now that John has saved me the trouble of stating the obvious, it's my turn. Whoever did this wasn’t terribly bright. Not that most criminals are.”

“How so?”

“His efforts with her bag are abysmal. He staged it to appear like a mugging, but the props are all wrong.”

“What do you mean? It's obvious her wallet was taken,” John said.

“I’m referring to what was left behind. Any street smart criminal would have taken the box of pseudoephedrine. It’s almost full. While they likely wouldn’t have received much for it, the need for it in methamphetamine production ensures its value. An easy sale.”

“I’m honestly a bit perplexed there’s anything left here at all. I’d have expected her jumper to have been taken too,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock scoffed. “Even a homeless person would be embarrassed to wear that. Besides, the usual vultures and addicts who pick over crime scenes like this are likely nesting somewhere warm at the moment.”

Over the next few days it was expected to heat up to normal temperatures. The weatherman had hemmed and hawed about shifting currents, but had no real explanation for the change.

“You’ll want to see this as well.” Sherlock eased the old woman’s eyelids open. A deep scarlet line slashed across both the white and the iris.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade said, his mouth twisting in disgust.

A phantom pain stung at John eyes. "What is that?"

Sherlock peeled off his nitrile gloves and tossed them onto the old woman’s body. “ _Tache noir de la sclerotique_.”

“Sorry, what?” John asked, utterly confused.

“You took French in school.”

“Yes, but I didn't take it to learn the language.” Oh no. He’d been far more interested in spending time with the lovely French exchange students. John couldn’t recall much of his lessons beyond a few choice phrases they’d taught him.

 _Tu as de très beaux yeux._ You have beautiful eyes.

 _Je voudrais vous voir a poil!_ I’d like to see you naked.

And his personal favorite: _C'etait formidable! Pourrais-tu defaire les attaches, s'il te plait?_ That was amazing! Will you please untie me now?

When Sherlock's face remained blank, John snickered. "I took it for the French girls, Sherlock."

“You’re pathetic.”

“They didn't think so.”

"How would you know?"

John grinned. "Some things transcend language."

Lestrade chuckled.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock gestured at the mark. “Tache noir de la sclerotique. It means ‘black spot of the sclera.’ It’s one of the occular signs of death. The horizontal darkening occurs when the eye dries out due to exposure to the air. Can either of you focus long enough to comprehend what that means?”

Lestrade frowned. “Her eyes were shut when we arrived.”

The answer came to John ever so slowly, like the gradual steeping of Assam tea. “Someone closed her eyes after she died.”

Sherlock gave him the ruddy slow clap. “Finally. Now what does that tell us?"

"Well, it means either our killer did it, or someone else came across her body,” Lestrade said.

"Yes, though the first is more likely than the second considering the state of her hand bag. Those who live on the streets around here are nothing but practical."

"What does it matter if the killer closed her eyes?" John asked.

“Because it tells us something about him. A hardened killer wouldn’t bother. If he did, then it’s likely he knew the victim." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Have Molly extract liquid from the vitreous humor to pinpoint the time of death. Tell her to text me with the potassium results."

“Anything else?” Lestrade asked.

“Although the chance is remote, let me know if you get a hit on her fingerprints.”

“Why's that?” John asked.

“It’s difficult to get an accurate print from wrinkled skin,” Lestrade explained, then frowned at Sherlock. “So, that's it? You don’t want to look around anymore?"

Sherlock flicked his coat collar up. "There are far more efficient ways for me to find answers than traipsing about aimlessly like Donovan."

"I thought you enjoyed traipsing about," Lestrade said.

"Only when there's someone to chase. Besides, my homeless network is far better suited for this.”

"But you said it wasn't likely a homeless man shut her eyes," John protested. "How could your network help?"

Sherlock’s gaze shot skyward. "I’m not only interested in last night.” He jabbed a finger at the dead woman. “Look at her jumper. It's a bloody beacon. If she lives in the city and has worn that about, someone in my network will have noticed."

“But it’s not like you can have them queue for a viewing,” John said.

“Indeed.” Sherlock raised his mobile and took a photograph.

Lestrade lurched forward, hand outstretched. "Oi! You can't go showing her picture around. Her family needs to be informed of her death first.”

Sherlock jerked his mobile out of reach. “If you can’t identify her, then there’s no family to inform. Relax. I cut off her head. Those in my network are more than capable of recognizing her without her face. Most of them avoid eye contact anyway. They’re far too busy judging a person by their clothing and body language to determine whether they’ll receive a handout or not."

"Fine. But the second you hear anything at all, you better let me know."

Sherlock gave a curt nod and walked away, evidently finished with the conversation.

"Don't forget about tonight," Lestrade called after him.

"Oh, he won't. You are blackmailing him, after all," John said.

A glint of white teeth. "Can't have him spending New Year's Eve alone, now can I? You sure you can't make it?"

"Sorry, mate. Abigail managed to leave her work conference early, and she doesn't like boats. So, we're having our own celebration at her place. I'll try to find someone else to take my ticket though."

"You do realize you're going to have to introduce your girlfriend to Sherlock at some point, right?"

"Yes, well, I'm not about to do it on any sort of holiday."

Lestrade laughed. "I reckon that's for the best. Less memorable that way."

"Have a Happy New Year," John said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"You too."

John hurried out of the alley and ducked beneath the caution tape.

A cab sat idling near the curb. The door flung open, and Sherlock waved him over. "Get in."

John settled into the seat, and the cabbie accelerated down the street. Ten minutes later they were sitting in a cafe. A cozy, bustling, bakery-scented cafe.

John stared at his friend over his mug of hot tea. "Right. Who did you kill?"

Sherlock set his coffee cup down and frowned. “What?”

"You've brought me to a cafe and paid for my tea. And my blueberry muffin. Whose body are you expecting me to hide? Did you murder Donovan while I was speaking to Lestrade?”

“As if I'd waste my time. It’s far more entertaining to watch her ruin herself."

Right. There were no grudges there. "Then why are we here?"

"You missed tea and breakfast."

John leaned back. "Yeah, because you're always concerned about my well being. Why are we really here?"

“We’re waiting for the mobile phone store across the street to open."

"What for? You've already got a phone."

"Brilliant deduction, John. You’re on fire today.”

He waited and took another bite of his muffin. It was quite good.

“I intend to purchase one for Leah, one of my more trustworthy homeless people. She’s one of the few who actually bathes."

"How do you know she won’t use it for personal reasons?” John could just envision the selfies.

"I'll program it to only allow texting with me."

"Why give her a phone at all?"

"Because it's more efficient than my tracking her down when I need information. I can send her photographs, and she can show them around to those in the network. I really should have thought of it sooner.”

"I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I always know what I’m doing.” Sherlock glanced at his watch. "And right now it’s time to purchase the cheapest mobile available."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think of their latest case? Are you happy to finally receive a new chapter after so long? Please let me know! Your comments and reviews fuel my writing like nothing else.


	6. Chapter 6

Stars glittered in the clear night sky, and dark waves lapped rhythmically against the side of the boat. A cool wind whipped at Sherlock’s hair bringing with it damp, oil, and brine. Pleasant if not for the revelry around him. Whoever had decided to crowd six hundred guests onto a riverboat on the Thames should be tossed into a burlap sack and thrown overboard. Men and women way past their limit gyrated to raucous music on the lower deck. Their keening laughter and foolish antics grated on his nerves. He stood in the shadows, whisky in hand, and scowled. People were annoying.

He'd hoped the lingering chilly weather would have canceled the New Year's Eve event, but Scotland Yard had simply peppered the decks with heaters and then filled the empty spaces with people.

Sherlock wouldn't have set foot on the boat if Lestrade hadn't blackmailed him. His nostrils flared. This had to be Mycroft's fault. So what if Lestrade had only encountered his brother a handful of times? That was all it took for Mycroft to manipulate a malleable mind. While Lestrade might have followed through on the threat to revoke Sherlock's cold case access, it wouldn’t have lasted long. A month at most. He could have survived, sanity intact until then. Possibly. That is, if all the murderers came back invigorated from their holiday and got back to murdering.

Naturally, John had jumped at the chance to spend time with Abigail and had left him to endure this agony alone. He glanced at his watch, but time refused to accommodate him by speeding up. His grip tightened on his glass. Thirty minutes until midnight. He only had to suffer through the fireworks, then the boat would return to the dock, and he could go home. He could manage that long. Movement caught his eye. Or not.

Sally Donovan swayed over to him, Anderson in tow.

Alcohol and idiots. Always a caustic combination.

“Hello, freak,” Donovan sang out.

Anderson didn’t bother to acknowledge him as he was far too busy staring at Donovan’s cleavage, a flush staining his pasty face.

Sherlock remained silent. Perhaps if he ignored them, they'd shove off.

"No one will miss you if you slip Lestrade's leash and swim home," Donovan said, with an acid smile.

Anderson snickered.

Sherlock had briefly considered it, but he wasn’t about to ruin a good suit. Tossing Donovan overboard was far more appealing.

She drained her wine glass. "God, you really are a freak, standing here in the dark, all alone. Are you even human?"

The breeze picked up again, and a hint of jasmine whispered through the salty air. Odd. Odder still was the hand that slid into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

He swung around, prepared to berate whoever dared-

Vivian smiled, all lipstick bright and white teeth. “Sorry I’m late.”

The boat rocked beneath his feet, and his internal compass spun. What was she doing here? He hid his surprise with a frown. "Tardiness to parties is becoming a habit of yours."

One bare shoulder shrugged, and her silver cocktail dress shimmered. “I nearly missed the boat before it left the dock and then got distracted by the food. Can you blame me?"

“Yes.” He blamed her right now for throwing him off balance.

She invaded his personal space and set one impossibly long leg between his feet. Her hand rose to touch his shoulder, then took a lingering path down his arm. A teasing glance through long lashes. "I promise I’ll make it up to you."

Time froze and so did the breath in his lungs. A faint pulse of pain throbbed in his temples like a warning. Despite his stunned state, the neurons in his brain continued to fire. He noted that while her body was very much facing him, her eyes had made a subtle movement towards Donovan. A muscle in Vivian's jaw clenched, and her fingers dug into his arm. Anger. It simmered and seethed beneath her flirtatious smile. And for once, it wasn't actually aimed at him. Sudden comprehension gave him back his breath.

Vivian had overheard Donovan. This was a charade.

Well. Only fair he play along.

Time resumed.

He slid his arm around Vivian's lower back and drew her close. “You’d best make it up to me, or else.”

Her eyes went wide.

Good. Satisfaction thrummed through his veins. He’d surprised her by participating. Now they were even.

“Or else what?” She swiped the whisky from his free hand and took a leisurely taste.

He lowered his voice to a rumbling purr. “Punishment.”

A rosy hue swept across her cheekbones, and her gaze dropped.

A second point to him. He smirked and took his glass back. He was winning.

But then Vivian smoothed a hand down his lapel, and her chin lifted, and he knew their little game wasn't over yet. Something decidedly devilish danced across her face. “Well, you'll have to try harder this time. The last punishment wasn't much of a deterrent." A slow, wicked smile. "You really shouldn't have let me eat the chocolate sauce."

Anderson made a strangled, choking noise, and Sherlock suddenly remembered why they'd begun this farce in the first place.

Vivian glanced over at Anderson and Donovan, and gave an exaggerated blink. “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there.”

Donovan’s mouth bobbed open and closed like an agitated codfish. “You’re here with him?”

“Oh, she's good,” Vivian said in a loud stage-whisper.

Sherlock bit back a laugh. This wretched evening had taken a turn for the better. Anderson, appearing completely incapable of speech, ogled Vivian as if he’d never seen an attractive woman before. Sherlock could hardly blame him, especially considering the company he kept.

Donovan's eyes turned to slits. “How much is he paying you?”

Vivian raised a brow, and her gaze raked over Donovan’s tight dress and plunging neckline. “You appear more than familiar with the going rate.”

“I’m still armed.”

“And I’m still unimpressed.”

A low hiss. Donovan's fingers whitened around her empty wine glass, and she lurched forward a step.

Anderson caught her elbow. “Sally - don’t.” He nodded at the second level above them. Guests and police officials crowded against the upper railing, waiting for the fireworks. If she got into an altercation with Vivian, Donovan’s application for promotion would have been immediately rejected. Pity. It would have saved Scotland Yard time.

Glowering, Donovan backed off, and Anderson herded her towards the lower deck.

“I hope she chokes on her own vomit,” Vivian muttered as they tottered away.

Amusement welled up inside Sherlock, and he laughed. It had been unexpectedly gratifying to watch her go up against Donovan, but she didn't appear to share his amusement.

Vivian glared until Donovan disappeared down the stairs. “What a horrid woman."

“Yes, she is.”

“Please tell me she’s only like that when she’s drunk.”

“Unfortunately not.”

She rounded on him. “How can you be so blasé about it? Didn't you hear what she called you?” Her mouth twisted into a fierce scowl. "I'm not even going to repeat it."

“A freak? That’s nothing new.” He shrugged. "It doesn't matter." It wasn't as if Donovan were the first person to call him names; she certainly wasn't the last. He was used to it by now.

Fury blazed in Vivian's eyes. “It does too matter! I can't believe she gets away with that. I should have knocked her over the side of the boat and made it look like an accident.”

Sherlock blinked, momentarily taken aback by her ardent defense of him. No one had ever bothered before. Not even John. He found himself smiling at her. “I wouldn’t have objected.”

“Oh really?” Expression calculating, Vivian strode forward a few steps, her gaze shifting to the crowd below, and his arm fell away from her waist. Startled, he realized he'd held her close for far longer than necessary. The night air bit into his side, highlighting the loss of her warmth. He drained his whisky, but the heat from the alcohol somehow seemed weak in comparison. He dismissed the irrational thought.

“Vivian.”

“What?” She didn’t look at him, still scanning the hordes of people for her target.

“Why are you here?”

After one final sweeping examination of the crowd, she turned back to face him. “Oh right. When I got off work, I had a message from John asking me if I wanted his ticket.” Her lips twitched. “He seemed concerned you might commandeer the riverboat.”

The memory of a cardboard box, a ratty sheet, and a poorly drawn skull and crossbones flashed through Sherlock's mind. “I just might, if Donovan returns.”

“Shall we make her walk the plank, Captain Holmes?” she asked with a teasing grin.

His eyes narrowed. "John talks too much."

“Don’t be mad. I think it’s adorable you wanted to be a pirate when you were a kid.”

"At least mine was better than John's. He wanted to be a potato."

“No way!” Her bright laughter rang out. "That's absolutely hilarious."

A waiter approached with a beverage tray. Sherlock returned his empty whisky, then took two champagne glasses from the man, handing one to Vivian. "What did you want to be?"

She huffed out a breath and shook her head. "Mine's silly."

"It can't possibly be worse than a tuber."

"It's not much better, really." A sideways glance at him. "I wanted to be a squirrel."

An incredulous chuckle burst out of his mouth. "That's absurd."

"Oi, shut it you. I liked climbing trees."

"And storing nuts?"

Her lips curved. "I stole the pecans for my mum's pie once, but my brother snitched on me."

"Ah, yes. Brothers will do that." Sherlock would have gotten away with a great deal more if not for Mycroft. Bubbles tickled his nose as he took a sip of champagne, and it fizzed across his tongue, refreshing and crisp. He faced the water, and the cool night air caressed his face.

Vivian rested her elbows on the railing beside him and sighed. “It's lovely here.”

The London Eye loomed above them, deep blue lights shifting to white, then purple, and back again. Up ahead on their right towered Big Ben, resplendent in burnished gold. “Yes, it is.”

This was his city, a terrible beauty. Her alleys stained with blood and death, her streets filled with the stupid, broken, and disturbed. The haze of exhaust, the buzz of traffic, the acrid scent of wet pavement. London teemed with life, gasped for it, demanded it. And oh, how she glowed, lights winking, beckoning him, her pull irresistible. His pulse beat in time with her, his work, his life - here. London was home. “I’ve never lived anywhere else, nor would I want to.”

“It must be nice to put down roots. I’m not sure I’d know how.” She spun her champagne glass between her fingers. "I moved around a lot as a kid. Our longest stay was a year and a half in Larkhill.”

“The garrison in Wiltshire?”

One brow rose. “Yes. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve heard of it. My father joined the army when he was sixteen.”

Well, that explained her perfect posture and penchant for travel. He wondered if she made her bed with hospital corners. He frowned into his glass. What did he care about her bed or what she did with it?

The loud music on the lower deck faded, and a man's voice blared over the speaker system. “Ladies and gents, we have a pre-show treat for you, courtesy of Scotland Yard. Please turn your eyes to the sky!”

An anticipatory hush settled across the crowd, and they both looked up.

A sharp whistle tore through the air, and gold sparks exploded above them. Everyone cheered.

The sound of shattering glass tore his gaze from the sight.

Vivian’s champagne glass lay broken on the deck.

She clutched at her head, eyes scrunched tight. Another set of fireworks screamed upwards, this time from all sides of the boat. She staggered back a step, then swayed. Sherlock caught her around the waist, his own ears ringing from the piercing noise. Vivian leaned into him and let out an agonized groan.

He had to get her out of there.

Half-dragging her, he shouldered his way through the crowd and into the dining area. All the doors were open to the spectacle outside. Vivian shuddered as another series of explosions went off, feet stumbling on the carpet. He scooped her up in his arms and strode down the closest corridor which led into a gleaming steel kitchen. The staff had their heads out the windows, completely oblivious as he carried Vivian past them. He hoped the next turn would lead him to the center of the boat where the insulation was thickest. It didn't. It took them left instead.

Fiery explosions and screaming whistles blared through the thin walls.

Vivian gasped and hid her face in his shirt.

He ground his teeth together. There had to be some place quiet on this bloody boat.

The door for the ladies' toilet caught his eye. It would have to do.

He carried Vivian inside and sat her upright on a small, low counter beside a long line of sinks. Her fingers whitened on her ears as the clamor outside increased another decibel. How much money had Scotland Yard spent? Swiftly, he turned on all the taps as high as they would go. The white noise from the water echoed through the room, though it wasn’t nearly enough to cover the persistent cacophony. He grabbed a strip of tissue and rolled it into two small balls. Not perfect earplugs, but they might help. He tried to pry Vivian’s hand away from her ear, but she jerked back, wild-eyed. The violent motion sent her head smacking into the mirror behind her. She winced, and her grip loosened long enough for him to slip the tissue between her palm and ear. Comprehension entered her gaze, and she allowed him to do the same to the other side before clutching at her head once again.

With a resounding boom, the main fireworks show began in earnest.

Multicolored lights flashed through the single long window in the bathroom, painting Vivian’s pale face yellow, green, and red in quick succession.

_Merda. Merda. Merda._

The Latin curse word burned the tip of his tongue.

A pained cry. Vivian curled in on herself and almost toppled off the counter top. He caught her shoulders and stepped forward, bracing her legs with his body.

Her eyes flinched open, glistening with moisture. “Sherlock.” It was a tortured plea.

Another explosion. This time it resonated inside Sherlock’s chest. Suddenly he was back in the Victorian pool house hurting her over and over while she begged for him to stop. He sucked in a shuddering breath.

No. This time he could soothe the hurt.

He released her shoulders and cradled her head, covering her hands with his. “Look at me.”

Steam rose from the sinks and swirled about the room, fogging up the mirrors.

“ _Vivian_.”

Her eyes wrenched open.

His thumbs lightly massaged her temples. “Focus. Shove each of the sounds into your purgatory room.”

“There’s too many.” A shuddering gasp. “The room is fading in and out.”

His jaw clenched. Not good.

Fireworks, each shriller than the next, vibrated their window.

A strangled yell tore out of her.

He brought his face close until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “Breathe with me.” He exhaled slowly, then inhaled. Bruised jasmine and steam filled his lungs. He kept his voice calm and steady. “In and out.”

Sweet, champagne-scented breath puffed a rapid rhythm against his skin. She was trying.

“Good. Now bring a pleasant sound from your library to the forefront of your mind.”

Panic rippled across her face. "I can't."

"You can. Focus past the pain. Hold onto the sound, and use it as a shield. Replay it in your mind."

Outside, the crowd screamed and chanted and cheered.

_10_

_9_

_8_

Her lips trembled, then a low whisper came, each word a soft cadence of displaced air against his mouth. “Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death. Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, to take into the air my quiet breath.” Her voice broke. “Now more than ever seems it rich to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain.”

_7_

_6_

_5_

His throat constricted. She was using Ode to a Nightingale, the poem he'd read to her, as her shield. His voice came out low. “It’s not midnight yet.”

A pathetic facsimile of a smile contorted her mouth.

_4_

_3_

_2_

His thumbs swept down and caught at the moisture staining her cheeks. Her eyes, huge and dark, burned with misery. An overwhelming desire to steal away her suffering surged through him. He had to distract her, but how?

His gaze fell to her lips, the bottom one red and full from her worrying at it.

A shivering heat set his hands and head buzzing. Suddenly, the low-level ache slumbering behind his eyes awoke and lashed out.

A lance of pain stabbed at his head, and all the air left his lungs.

_1_

A great cry arose followed by a final triumphant cascade of fireworks.

Vivian collapsed into him, her face pressed against his chest.

He breathed through his own torment and somehow managed to keep his hands over hers to protect her ears.

“It’s over,” he murmured into her hair. The silky strands brushed against his chin.

The bathroom door swung open, and a snogging couple stumbled through, deaf and blind to their presence. The woman tugged at the man’s shirt while he fumbled with the zip on the back of her sequined dress.

Sherlock scowled at them over the top of Vivian’s head. “Get out.”

The man tore his mouth from the woman’s neck and blinked blearily at him. “Oh sorry, mate.”

It was Detective Police Constable Crothers, a colleague of Lestrade’s, and newly married.

The woman giggled and dragged her husband out the door. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“That was Sherlock Hol-”

The door shut behind them sending wisps of steam whirling about.

The much softer strains of Auld Lang Syne whispered through the walls.

Vivian gave a shuddering sigh.

The sparking pain inside Sherlock's brain receded, leaving behind a persistent ache.

After a long moment, Vivian's head slowly rose, exhaustion in the lines of her face. “Happy New Year," she whispered.

He exhaled a heavy breath. “Quite. Are you all right?"

A weak smile. "I've been better." Mascara streaked her cheeks from where his thumbs had brushed away her tears. Her weight left his chest, and she straightened.

It occurred to him then that he was still cradling her head. He let go and took a step back. His gaze dropped, landing on the smooth, pale skin of her upper thighs. Her silver cocktail dress had ridden up. He spun around and stared at one of the toilet stalls. “You’ll want to fix your dress.”

A muttered curse came from behind him.

Keeping his gaze averted, he busied himself with turning off the running taps.

Heels clicked across the floor. Vivian splashed water across her face, then dried it with a paper towel. Tired eyes met his. “Thank you for helping me.”

“Yes, well. Please don’t say we should do this again sometime.”

Her mouth quirked. “Oh, I don’t know. Ringing in the New Year in this lovely loo with you? Not so bad.”

“Right. Barring the agonizing pain.”

She rubbed at her temple. “There is that."

“We need to determine what’s wrong with your Mind Palace.”

A shudder ran through her. “My purgatory room's never done that before. It started fading in and out during the fireworks. I think it stabilized there at the end, but it feels full to bursting now.”

The fact that her purgatory room had faded at all was disturbing, but it wasn’t her only problem. “Your hearing needs to be checked out as well.” It was entirely too sensitive, dangerously so.

She stiffened. “I refuse to see any more doctors for testing.”

“I'm not suggesting just any doctor. John will do it.”

The reluctance in her posture diminished. “Alright. As long as he doesn't mind.”

“He won't.” A glance out the window told him they’d be docking shortly. He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

She tucked her hand through his elbow, and they left the loo.

Cabs lined the streets ready to take on passengers. Sherlock approached one and opened the door.

Vivian slid inside, yawning. “I’ll split the fare with you.”

“No need. We’re not going far.”

“What do you mean? I’m going home.”

“No, you're not. We need to take care of your Mind Palace.”

She stared at him. “Now? I thought you meant tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.” It was thirty-two minutes past midnight.

“But what about sleep?"

“Sleep can wait. Your Mind Palace cannot.”

Her brows drew together. "Is it that bad?"

"I've never had a room fade, especially such an integral one. While there's a chance the problem may not worsen over the next eight hours, I don't think it's worth the risk."

A weary nod. “I suppose not. Let's go then.”

The cabbie rapped on the partition. “Where to?”

Sherlock smiled. “To the quietest place I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Did you enjoy Sherlock and Vivian's interaction? Have you deduced their destination? Your comments and reviews feed this writer's soul, so please let me know!


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock led Vivian through a maze of corridors and into the depths of St. Bart’s Hospital. Every other light in the ceiling was lit, layering a grid of shadows across their path. Except for the low hum of the industrial air conditioner and the echo of Vivian’s heels, all was quiet. No one ventured down here at this early hour.

"Here we are." He unlocked the door and ushered her through. Icy air wafted across his face. The fluorescent lights flickered on, reflecting off three metal examination tables and a long, steel island counter top. A grid of square metal doors covered the far wall. "Welcome to the morgue."

Vivian peered around the room, then gave a sniff. "It smells sweet." Surprise colored her tone.

"Foul smelling morgues are a thing of the past. Corpses may have odors initially, but they're cleansed prior to autopsy. And the room is disinfected daily."

"Oh." Her gaze flicked to the refrigerator doors.

“Would you like to see one?” He picked up Molly's chart. The old woman he'd examined in the alley yesterday hadn't been autopsied yet, but she was third on the list under the placeholder name, Jane Smith. He searched for someone more interesting. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing exciting at the moment. Mr. Giuseppe in number four was shot ten times at close range. That makes for some interesting powder burns."

She shivered, rubbing at her bare arms. "Maybe another time."

The lace shawl covering her shoulders offered little protection from the morgue’s chilly atmosphere. Sherlock removed his Belstaff coat and offered it to her. "Here. I don't need it." He still had his suit jacket on, and besides, he'd long since grown accustomed to the temperature here.

A soft smile. "Thank you." She slipped it on and nestled deep into the black wool.

The straight, masculine lines of the long coat still somehow managed to hint at the feminine curves hidden beneath it. Wisps of red hair escaped her elaborate twist and brushed against the top of the collar, which she'd flipped up. Sherlock smirked. If John were here, he would have accused her of trying to look cool. John would have been mostly correct, all except for the trying part. Sherlock looked away. His coat would likely make anyone look cool.

He drew out a pair of high stools from beneath the counter, and they both sat, knees angled toward one another. "It's time to focus on your Mind Palace. Center yourself, then go to your purgatory room and tell me what you find."

Vivian closed her eyes. Twenty minutes passed before her breathing finally steadied. The fireworks trauma and subsequent mental strain were likely to blame for the increase in time.

“What do you see?” he asked.

Slow, and rhythmic breathing was the only response. She’d gone under too far to be able to communicate with him. He tapped her shoulder, then shook it. No reaction.

Since her hands were tucked into the pockets of his coat, he lightly trailed his fingertips across her cheek. Her skin was smooth and slightly cool from the air conditioning. “Vivian.”

Her eyes shot open, and he quickly dropped his hand.

“What? I was looking around like you asked me to,” she said.

“What did you see?”

“Well, the purgatory room isn’t fading in and out like before, but the sounds from the fireworks are bouncing everywhere. It's giving me a headache.”

He could relate. His own temples still throbbed from earlier. “What else? What was I doing in your Mind Palace?”

“I don’t know. You interrupted me before I could find out.”

“I interrupted you because you couldn’t hear me speaking to you."

A frown. "But I used to hear you just fine before."

"You were just learning back then. Daily practice has created a deeper connection with your Mind Palace. Right now we need to weaken that connection just enough so that I can question you while you’re there, but not so much as to jar you out of it.”

“How are we supposed to do that?”

He removed his suit jacket. “You first learned your meditation technique by matching your heart rate to mine while I monitored yours. We'll try that first and see if it's enough to ground you.” He slid his stool closer, then unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt so she would have access to his radial artery. Hers would be easy enough to access.

“Wait.”

“For what?” Sherlock continued rolling up his shirt cuff.

Before he could finish, she tugged his arm to rest between them on the counter. Her hand slid down, past his exposed wrist, and settled across his open palm. Despite the cool metal surface of the counter and Vivian's equally chilly fingers, his skin immediately began to grow warm. He stared down at their clasped hands. This wasn't what he'd had in mind at all.

He eyed her. "I know you're tired, but surely you remember what we did before."

Two small spots of color formed on her cheeks. “Of course I remember. I just think this will work better." Her gaze dropped to her lap. "I don't want to get knocked out of my Mind Palace. We can always add the heart rate bit in later if we need to."

The warmth in his hand spiked when her fingers shifted, and he found himself nodding in agreement. Perhaps the additional feedback wasn't necessary.

She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. This time, it took thirty minutes before she centered herself properly. He waited another moment, just to be certain. It would take her an additional few minutes to adjust to communicating with him like this. The combination of inward and outward focus could be disconcerting at first.

“Are you in your purgatory room?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

"Yes, you’re standing in the far corner of the garden shed with your arms folded, facing the wall. It almost looks like you’re in time-out.” A faint smile. “I bet you experienced that frequently as a child.”

“On the contrary. Disciplinary methods in my family were hardly so mundane. I was forced to endure the torture of social interaction with other children.” A time-out in the corner would have been a pleasurable holiday in comparison.

“My parents made me collect snails in the garden as punishment for being cheeky. When I couldn’t meet their quota, I had to hunt for the rest in the neighbor’s garden. It was disgusting.”

“It clearly wasn't very effective.”

A snort. “Neither was yours.”

He smiled, amused. So far, so good. Their communication was holding steady. It was likely safe to work now. “What am I looking at - in your holding room? Is there anything on the wall?”

“You won’t let me get close enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re blocking me from getting to it. You just told me it’s not safe.” Her grip tightened.

Alarm clenched his stomach. “Your subconscious is telling you something isn’t right. Back away."

Her brow furrowed. "I moved to the center of the room, and you stood aside." A sharp intake of breath. “The corner is blurred, like a watercolor painting gone wrong. It’s all _murky_.”

“Get out of your Mind Palace.”

She opened her eyes. "What’s happening?"

"It appears your purgatory room wasn't established as solidly as we thought.” The question was why. Vivian hadn’t experienced trouble with any other rooms. Sherlock's mind raced back to when he'd first helped her construct it.

Ah. He should have anticipated this being a problem.

He met her worried gaze. “You were at your worst when we were building your purgatory room in the garden shed. Our sessions kept getting interrupted by your micro sleeps and the pressure increasing in your brain. I don't believe the structure was ever fully sound to begin with."

"But if I didn’t build it properly in the first place, why has it worked fine for the past three months?"

"Perhaps the massive onslaught of the fireworks tonight was enough to reveal the hidden damage. I can't be certain. If you've been careful about not leaving memories in your holding room for too long, the signs of deterioration likely went unnoticed until now."

A slow nod. “I do try to delete the accumulated sounds before bed every night.” She rubbed her free hand across her face and grimaced. "The echoes of the fireworks are getting worse."

"You'll need to delete them all before we can move on to the bigger problem of your purgatory room."

She shot him a frustrated look. "There’s so many of them though. Can’t I just lump them together and destroy them all at once? It’d be faster."

His fingers flexed involuntarily around hers. "There are no short-cuts with deletion. I've told you before, it requires a surgeon's touch. You can't just go deleting memories willy-nilly. You might end up deleting something important. And except for the feeling of déjà vu, you won't even realize something is missing until you find a terrifying blank spot within a series of linear events. I assure you, you don’t want that to happen." His gaze flicked down to their joined hands. It would be more than a little awkward for him if she were to open her eyes following a reckless deletion to find herself in the morgue like this with no memory of how she got here.

A sigh. "Fine, I won't do that. This is just going to take a while, that's all."

He glanced at the wall clock. It was a quarter after two. "I haven't got any pressing plans, do you?"

"Oh, not much. Just starting out the New Year in this cheerful morgue and repairing my Mind Palace."

"Well, you’re in luck then. The party’s just begun."

 

*******

 

Two hours later, Vivian’s mind was free of the remnants of the fireworks, and he’d only had to walk her through a few complex deletions.

She yawned and rested her chin on her free hand. “What’s next?”

“Next, you dismantle your purgatory room.”

Her shoulders drooped. “How am I supposed to delete the entire garden shed?”

“Your holding room is merely a collection of parts. You built it piece by piece. Now, isolate each one and delete it.”

Another two hours passed, broken only by the occasional question and response. Sherlock eyed their clasped hands. It certainly made for a peculiar picture. John would have had a field day if he saw them. Of course, it wasn't as if they were doing it for any rubbish sentimental reason. This was simply a useful tool to help ground Vivian while she worked on her Mind Palace. It baffled him why anyone would initiate such pointless physical contact in the first place. Yet everywhere he went there were people walking about hand-in-hand, hip-to-hip, and even worse - mouth-to-mouth. It was appalling how everyone was so completely ruled by their emotions and animal appetites. Thank God he was above all that.

Vivian's thumb, which had been perfectly still thus far, unexpectedly brushed across the back of his knuckles. Abruptly, all the nerves in Sherlock’s body took up residence in the spot. Another soft sweep sent a frisson of electricity zinging up his arm. A muscle in his jaw clenched. His nerves must have decided to misfire out of boredom or something. Yes. That had to be it. His headache, which had receded for the past few hours, returned with a familiar throb. Instead of keeping to the steady rhythm she'd created, Vivian's thumb paused mid-caress, and his wretched nerves jangled in response.

A faint scowl tugged at her mouth. “The watering can and terra cotta pots don’t want to leave. It’s driving me mad."

Well, her ruddy thumb was driving _him_ mad. If she didn’t delete the rest of her purgatory room soon, he was going to climb inside her brain and do it himself. He unclenched his jaw and somehow kept his voice calm. “Take the watering can apart and break the terra cotta pots if you have to. Remember, one small deletion at a time.”

“Okay." Her thumb twitched, and the delicate torture resumed.

Sherlock watched in horror as actual _gooseflesh_ broke out across his skin and crept upward to disappear beneath his sleeve. And now his arm was tingling like he'd slept on it. What the hell was wrong with him? His eyes narrowed. No, this had nothing to do with him. This was all Vivian's fault. Here he was helping her, and look how she repaid him. He glared down at her hand.

Her skin was so fair, he could easily trace the faint blue lines of her veins. Clear polish glinted on her short, manicured nails. He leaned in closer. Tiny scars spider-webbed across her knuckles. If not for the bright lighting, he never would have noticed them. What had caused such a network of scars? A band of smooth skin ran between the base of her knuckles and the minor knuckles on her fingers. He blinked. He was an idiot. Obviously she wrapped her knuckles for kickboxing. Five years of classes would certainly leave scars. Some were quite a bit deeper than others though, not what he’d expect from simple kickboxing. Of course there was nothing simple about Vivian Walker, fidgeting thumb included.

Sherlock drew back just as her eyes fluttered open. A tired smile stretched across her face. “I did it. The room is completely gone. I even deleted the door and wallpapered over it.”

He smoothly withdrew his hand from hers, placing it on his lap. It still had the audacity to faintly tingle. “Good, but there's still more to do.”

The meager triumph on her face dimmed. “Right. Of course there is.” Sighing, she reached up and plucked the hidden pins holding her twisting up-do in place. Her red hair tumbled down in soft, curling waves to her shoulders. "What's next on the list?"

“Now that you’ve fully dismantled your purgatory room, it’s time to build a new one using this room.”

Her nose wrinkled. “The morgue? Why?”

“Think. It’s the ideal holding room. There are corpses transitioning in, just like your audio memories, and then they’re sent away, either to be buried or incinerated. It’s rather fitting.”

“Lovely.”

“Glad you agree. Now go examine the room and commit the structure to memory.”

Smothering a yawn, she approached the refrigerator doors and outlined each one with her hand, fingers brushing across the metal. Taking her time, she moved methodically from one section to the next. After that, she perused the examination tables and viewing windows. When she reached the far corner, she returned to her seat.

He frowned. “There are two more walls.”

A hand rose to rub at her face, eyelids heavy. “I know. I just need a minute.”

“To what?”

“To rest.” Vivian scooted her stool over until it touched his, then tucked herself against his side. Reaching behind her, she brought his dangling arm around to support her back and secured his hand on her waist. Then with a soft sigh, she leaned her head against his shoulder and shut her eyes.

Sherlock stared down at her - completely stunned. She'd just positioned him like he was some sort of _puppet_. He didn’t know which was worse, that Vivian thought she could get away with it, or that he’d just sat there like a simpleton and let her. It took him a moment before he could form any words at all. “What are you doing?”

“Resting,” she grumbled.

“But there’s still work to do.” He waved a futile hand around the room.

A slow breath left her mouth, sending a warm puff of air against his neck. “Sherlock, if I don’t rest, my new purgatory room is going to have the same problem as before.”

He grudgingly admitted she had a point. Neither of them wanted her room to fade again. “Fine. You have ten minutes.”

The only reply was deepened breathing, and her body leaned more heavily against him. Why on earth had she chosen him as her personal pillow? The very idea was absurd. His gaze swept across the morgue and its numerous hard, gleaming surfaces.

Perhaps it wasn't that absurd.

He supposed her body’s need to shut down wasn’t entirely unexpected. She’d exerted a great deal of mental energy, after all, and the fireworks had already taken their toll. The residual pain bracketing her mouth softened with sleep. Some of his agitation fled then, and he found himself sitting as still as possible so as not to disturb her. He felt rather like a piece of furniture. A piece of furniture with a growing headache. While he knew it was impossible, his head seemed to throb in time with Vivian's breathing, the discomfort slowly increasing in direct proportion to the rising warmth of her body against his side. He shoved the pain into his purgatory room, and it dimmed slightly.

Ten minutes passed. Though he knew he should wake her, he remained silent. A bit of REM sleep could prove beneficial. Another ten minutes passed. Jasmine teased his nose and something else. Something clean and fresh. He dipped his chin and inhaled slowly, his nose just brushing her hair.

Lavender. French lavender. From her shampoo.

Her head curled forward, nose falling toward his sternum. She'd have a terrible crick in her neck if she slept like that much longer.

He sighed. It was clear what he had to do. “Vivian.”

A fine line appeared between her brows, and her face burrowed into his chest.

“I’m going to move you.”

“Mmmmm.”

He decided to interpret the faint hum as agreement. He lifted her in his arms and eased her onto the nearest uncluttered flat surface, then took off his suit coat and bundled it beneath her head. She barely stirred when he shielded her eyes from the overhead lights with her discarded shawl.

“I’ll give you another half hour, then it’s back to work.”

A soft sigh was the only reply.

 

*******

 

The two coffee cups warmed Sherlock's hands as he walked down the corridor. His footsteps slowed. Molly Hooper stood outside the door to the morgue, fishing in her bag for her keys. Annoyance pricked at him. It was New Year’s Day. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Molly glanced up as he approached. "Oh, hello. What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you."

She fiddled with her lab coat. "Lestrade said you were waiting on the results for the old woman who was brought in yesterday, so I thought I'd get an early start."

Normally he would have been thrilled, but for the first time Molly's nonexistent social life was an inconvenience.

When he didn't respond, she cleared her throat. "You're still wearing the same clothes from the party." Her tone turned it into question.

Sherlock recalled greeting her in passing during his search for a more secluded area on the river boat. "I haven't been home yet."

"Oh." Her puzzled gaze dropped to the two coffee cups, and a small smile appeared. "Is that for-"

"Could you open the door?" He'd reached his limit for pointless small talk thirty seconds ago.

"Right. Yes, of course." Molly selected her key from the ring.

"It's unlocked."

Her hand hovered over the knob, and she looked over her shoulder at him. "Wait. You’re not just arriving here?"

"Obviously not, as I'm not wearing my coat and the door is unlocked."

"I didn't know you were given your own set of keys."

"I wasn't. I copied yours." He raised his eyebrows. "The door?"

With a shake of her head, she finally turned the knob, and they went inside.

Four steps into the morgue, Molly gasped and dropped her bag.

Sherlock chuckled and swept past her. "Don't get too excited. She’s very much alive.”

Vivian lay curled on her side on the middle examination table. Her red hair spilled across the metal surface. His Belstaff coat surrounded her, leaving only her head and feet visible, while her shawl covered her eyes like a loose blindfold.

Sherlock pulled it off her face and plunked the cup down by her head. "I have coffee."

Squinting in the bright light, Vivian groaned and tucked her head deeper into his coat like a demented turtle. "Go away. M'still resting."

Molly set her bag on the counter with a thud. "Looks like someone had too much to drink."

Sherlock ignored her and lightly drummed his fingertips across the table near Vivian's nose. "You still have a room to finish."

"That couldn't have been thirty minutes." A grumpy mumble.

He glanced at his watch. "It was thirty-five. I was detained at the door."

Tools clattered in the stainless steel sink, and Vivian winced.

Sherlock glared at Molly. "Careful."

Her lips pursed. "I'm working."

"No, you're making noise. And the whole reason we're here is for the quiet."

Molly jabbed a gloved finger at the line of refrigerator drawers. "I don't hear them complaining. If she’s bothered, she can go nurse her hangover somewhere else."

"Are you blind? She's not hungover. She's exhausted. There's a difference."

"Regardless, the only people who should be resting here are the dead." Molly slammed a bone saw onto the counter.

Vivian eased into a sitting position, silver dress shimmering through a gap in his coat. "She's right. I should go."

He shook his head. "Nice try. Drink your coffee."

“Slave driver,” Vivian muttered and took a sip, bleary-eyed.

Perhaps once the caffeine kicked in, she'd be more amenable to moving forward.

Molly waved a metal basin at him. "Are you actually working on something, or just here for the holiday?"

"I'm helping Vivian rebuild a room in her Mind Palace."

The bowl slipped from Molly’s hand, and a series of clangs resounded as it bounced across the floor. Vivian flinched, coffee cup jerking in her hand. Sherlock scowled. It was a wonder the dead hadn't woken in protest.

Molly ducked behind the counter and picked up the bowl. "You have a Mind Palace?"

Vivian rubbed at her temple. "Yes. It's been giving me some trouble though."

"I'm trying to remedy that, but we're encountering a few obstacles," Sherlock said. Molly’s interference, for one.

Thankfully, Molly’s mobile rang and she left the room, finally giving them and the recently departed a moment’s peace.

Vivian exhaled, green eyes dropping to her coffee cup. “I'm sorry.”

His brows shot up. “For what?”

“For being in a foul mood and taking it out on you.”

He blinked. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had apologized to him. “There’s no need.”

“Yes, there is. You stayed up all night helping me, and you haven't complained once. And here I am acting like a child.”

“I don't require as much sleep as most people." He studied her tired, troubled face. "Do you need more rest?"

She bit her lip and glared up at the ceiling. “It’s not that. I don’t feel nearly as exhausted as I did before. I just-” She stopped, lips compressed.

"You just what?"

Her eyes scrunched shut. “I just hate this.”

His grip tightened on the paper cup until it creaked in protest. What did she hate? The morgue? Her Mind Palace? The sweetened coffee turned bitter on his tongue. Something to do with him?

Vivian’s eyes opened and frustration twisted at her mouth. “I _hate_ being the damsel in distress.”

He stared at her. Was she serious? It certainly appeared so. His lips twitched.

She scowled. “It’s not funny.”

“Yes, it is. You’re being ridiculous.”

“I am not.”

He chuckled, and the low sound echoed through the morgue. “Yes, you are. You’re ridiculous, stubborn, and absolutely certifiable, but you’re no damsel in distress. You survived six months of auditory memory buildup, suffered through morphine withdrawal, stunned John with a brass candlestick, fractured one of my ribs, learned how to build a Mind Palace, and knocked a murderer out cold, all within a ten-day span.”

“But I was abducted, and you had to rescue me.”

“You were drugged. It was out of your control.”

She threw up a hand. “What about last night? I wasn’t drugged then. And you had to rescue me _again_. Honestly, it’s humiliating.”

Sherlock shook his head. He was hardly the valorous knight on noble steed riding to her rescue. A dark memory, one he kept as distant as possible, tugged at his mind. He wanted to ignore it, tuck it away, but perhaps it could help her somehow. “A friend once told me it takes strength to accept help, and refusing it makes you an idiot.”

A flicker of curiosity broke through her aggravation. “Which friend was that?”

“Lestrade. He assisted me during my cocaine withdrawals.” The raging hunger had clawed at Sherlock’s insides, tore at his mind. He’d been unhinged, lashing out at anything and anyone in violent desperation. “I wasn’t at my best then.”

The frustration faded from Vivian's face. "Neither was I, during mine."

He nodded. Unlike most people, Vivian had the unenviable position to understand. Although his own experience with withdrawal had been far more savage than hers.

She reached out, and her fingers curled around his arm, surprising him. Before he could react, her hand tightened for a second, then withdrew. The strangely comforting gesture somehow eased the burden of the memory in his mind. Curious.

“Were you any better than me at accepting help?” she asked.

He snorted. “What do you think?” He’d needed multiple restraints. Rooms within rooms. Layers of guards.

The toe of her high heel nudged the floor. “I think we both hate accepting help.” She shot him a small smile. “Thank you for that. And for the coffee.” An indignant gurgle emanated from her stomach then, and her cheeks went pink.

Smirking, he leaned back against the exam table opposite of her. "Give me two hours, and I'll buy you breakfast, with your winnings from Christmas, of course."

Vivian’s entire countenance brightened. "Deal. Can I pick where we go?”

“Yes.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Now, can we move on? Or are you still in _distress_?”

She gave him the finger, and he chuckled. “Better. Now take another tour of the room. Try not to fall asleep this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, dear reader, what did you think? Are you getting bored with Sherlock and Vivian? Any special requests? Are you ready for The Final Problem tomorrow? As always, your feedback is my own 7% solution. Please leave me a note!


	8. Chapter 8

John finished dictating his final notes into his digital recorder, then stretched. His schedule had been jam-packed. On top of the patients with the usual sniffles, aches, and pains had come the whimpering sods seeking a hangover cure. It was always like this the day after New Year’s. John winced as he dropped a chart into his outbox. Well, all except for that last lad who had drunkenly tied a sparkler to his willy to impress his girlfriend. That was a new one.

His email pinged. A message came through granting him access to JAMA, _The Journal of the American Medical Association_. After Sherlock had explained that Vivian had only pretended to read the Christmas cracker joke, John had started searching through various medical journals to see if any of her symptoms matched up with a specific reading disability. So far, nothing had, but hopefully this latest one would provide some answers. Noting the late hour and in need of a hot cuppa, he decided to continue his research from home. John grabbed his coat and left his office.

As he rounded the corner, he noticed a red light was on for one of the exam room doors. It indicated whether a patient was waiting to be seen, but that didn't make sense now. The front staff had clocked out an hour ago. Someone must have left it on by accident. He opened the door to flip the switch and froze.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock said, fiddling with something on his lap. It appeared to be a contraption made out of tongue depressors and adhesive bandages.

Vivian, who was seated in the other visitor chair, had one as well. She gave him a cheery wave, then eyed Sherlock. "Ready?"

"Now!"

A flash of movement. Two cotton balls soared across the room toward an open canister on the far counter. One ball landed inside, while the other bounced off the edge and tumbled to the floor to join its scattered fellows.

"Ha! A perfect parabola," Sherlock crowed.

Vivian lifted her nose in the air. "The draft from the open door threw mine off."

"What draft? You just failed to build yours right."

"I'm the one who showed you how to do it."

"And I improved on your crude design."

"I'll show you crude." Vivian aimed a kick at Sherlock's foot.

John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his face straight. He cleared his throat, and they both looked over at him. "Did you seriously make cotton ball catapults out of my tongue depressors?"

"It wasn’t my idea," Sherlock said, as if he hadn’t just been an enthusiastic participant.

Vivian’s smile turned sheepish. "Sorry, I got bored since I couldn't read the magazines."

Laughter bubbled up in John's chest, but he called on his military training to hold it off. Keeping his expression stoic, he approached Vivian and held out a palm. "Let's see it then."

Smile faltering, she handed it to him. "You're not mad, are you? I'll clean up the mess."

John gave the contraption a thorough inspection. Forcing a frown, he offered it back. She took it, eyes round like a school child expecting a scolding. He finally nodded. "That's not bad, but if you add an extra tongue depressor to the base, it'll launch higher."

Vivian stared at him for a second, then threw her head back and laughed. Unable to help himself, John joined her. Sherlock rolled his eyes at them.

"And how would you know that?" she asked John.

"Doctors get bored too," he said with a grin. “We have an annual competition at the office. I won first place last year.”

Sherlock held up his device. "Mine has an extra tongue depressor on the base _and_ beneath the launch arm." He smirked at Vivian. "I told you it would work better that way."

Vivian threw a cotton ball at Sherlock, and it ricocheted off his cheek to join a sizable pile near his feet. Sherlock shook his head in disapproval.

Judging by the cotton ball clinging to Vivian's grey jumper and the large number surrounding her own chair, Sherlock was hardly innocent. Amusement swept through John. Sherlock and Vivian had come a long way since brawling in the mud at _Brackenwood_.

Vivian bent down and began to gather up the scattered cotton balls.

The chaos of the scene made John pause. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about an explosion of feathers at our flat, would you? Mrs. Hudson was complaining to me about a mess she had to clean up after Christmas."

"Feathers?" Vivian's eyebrows shot up. "Did Sherlock let loose a chicken or something?"

"It apparently looked like a poultry war zone, and one of our pillows is missing." John folded his arms. "Sherlock said he _magically_ woke up to the room like that."

"Did you really?" Vivian asked Sherlock, curiosity in her gaze.

"Yes. When I came out of my room, there were feathers everywhere." A shrug. "It's a mystery, but one unworthy of my time."

"I'm not buying that. I know you did something to it. You just won’t fess up," John said.

"Please. I've blatantly destroyed a number of objects in our flat. Why would I lie about a pillow?"

John pursed his lips. He hadn't considered that.

"Maybe it was a wild animal," Vivian said, mouth quirking.

Sherlock shot her an inscrutable look. "Yes, I expect it was a feral cat seeking shelter from the storm on Christmas."

She sniffed. "It was probably chased inside by a rabid dog. Poor little moggy."

John threw up an incredulous hand. "And what? It took umbrage with our pillow and tore it to shreds? How could it have gotten into our third-story flat with all the doors and windows closed?"

"Animals can be quite clever," Sherlock said.

Vivian nodded in agreement. "One time my gran came home from holiday and found a raccoon in her bed with an open bag of crisps. She almost had a heart attack."

John's arm fell to his side. Maybe Sherlock was innocent after all. He felt rather guilty now. "I suppose that's possible. Sorry for not believing you."

"No matter. I've shot the wall and melted a hole in the kitchen floor. It was a logical progression of thought."

John felt a bit better at that. “True.” He waited until Vivian finished binning the gathered mess. "Right. So, what are you two doing here?"

"She needs her ears checked," Sherlock said.

"Why?"

Vivian gave a put upon sigh. "I had a hearing episode at the New Year's Eve party during the fireworks show. It was...uncomfortable.”

"Of all the times for a stiff upper lip, this isn't one of them,” Sherlock said, voice sharp.

"Fine, it was completely awful, and I thought my head was going to explode. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic."

John held up a hand. "Wait, how do you know it was that bad?"

"I was there." Sherlock selected a magazine from the rack on the wall and paged through it.

John's eyebrows rose. He'd asked about the party yesterday evening, but Sherlock had only said it hadn't been a complete waste of time, and that yes, he'd seen Vivian. He hadn't mentioned anything else, certainly nothing about a hearing episode. Perhaps he'd been waiting for Vivian to share it with John herself.

"Can you tell me more about what happened?" John asked.

"It started when the fireworks went off. Every blast built on top of the other inside my head. It hurt so bad, I almost collapsed." Her gaze fell to her hands. "Sherlock helped me through it, but I'd rather not repeat the excruciating event, if possible."

"How did you help her?"

"I took her to the loo, turned on all the taps for the white noise, fashioned earplugs out of tissue, and helped her shield her mind by using a previously memorized sound from her Mind Palace."

John blinked. That last bit was definitely outside his area of expertise. "Right. Well, I'll need to check your ears first. A hearing test might also be needed, depending on what I find. Sound alright?"

Vivian nodded.

“Good.” John patted the exam table. "Up you pop."

Vivian reluctantly moved onto the table. When he picked up the otoscope and moved it toward her ear, her whole body stiffened. He paused. The exam wasn't going to go well if she expected him to cause her pain. John set the otoscope down and reached for her shoulder. "It's okay. I'll-"

She flinched at the contact, and John jerked his hand back. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. It's nothing.” She waved away his concern. “Just a sore shoulder from my kickboxing class."

"That must have been one hell of a class," John said, frowning. He'd barely put any pressure on it at all.

Sherlock peered over the top of his magazine at her. "Indeed. And when was this class, exactly?"

"Yesterday evening at six."

"On New Year's Day? How unusual."

"It's an unusual class."

"Clearly." Sherlock's expression was unreadable.

"Right. I’m going to need you to take off your jumper now," John said to Vivian.

"What? Why? I'm only here for you to check my ears."

"Not anymore you're not. I'll be checking your shoulder too."

Her mouth fell open.

Patients usually fell into one of three categories. First were the worriers. They came in every week complaining of some new malady and browsed WebMD on a daily basis. The second group belonged to the dutiful. These patients came in for their annual physical, kept up on their shots, and made preventative care appointments as necessary. The third and most difficult group were the stoics. They were often dragged in by someone else, were horrified by the invasion of their privacy, and stubbornly downplayed any discomfort they had. To the stoic, a severed limb was but a scratch. It appeared John had found their spokeswoman. “Go on. And don’t even think about arguing with me.”

Sherlock snickered at Vivian’s affronted expression and flipped a page of the magazine.

"Do you have any other injuries?" John asked, as she reached for the hem of her soft grey jumper.

"I'm fine, John, really." Sighing, she finished taking it off, revealing a short-sleeved top underneath. John had her stretch her arm out toward Sherlock and slowly rotate her shoulder. Before he could ask her how it felt, Sherlock slammed his magazine down on the second visitor chair and stood. He stalked across the room to the sink. The tap came on and off, then Sherlock appeared beside him. Something dark and angry seethed behind his eyes. He shoved a damp paper towel at Vivian. "Wipe it off. All of it.”

She bristled at the icy command. "No. You're making a big deal out of nothing."

"How about we let John decide that?"

"Let me decide what?" John asked, bewildered. Of course they ignored him.

"It'll hurt more if I do it," Sherlock warned, taking a step closer.

Her eyes flashed. "Yes. It certainly will."

The tense moment stretched taut as they glared at one another, neither one willing to back down. Right as John was about to demand an explanation, Vivian snatched the towel from Sherlock. Scowling, she gingerly wiped at her left forearm. Within seconds the towel turned flesh-colored. It took a moment before John realized it was from make-up. His stomach turned at what was revealed. Two dark parallel bruises stretched across her arm. Ruptured blood vessels lined the outside of the scarlet contusions. Vivian switched to her other arm, gently washing the inside of it. Another bruise appeared, this one set at an angle. Horror and nausea twisted at John’s insides. Both were classic tramline bruises. The cause: blunt force trauma. The distinct marking only resulted when a person was beaten with a cylindrical object, like an iron pipe or the sharp edge of a cricket bat.

White hot fury blazed through John. Someone had hurt Vivian, had struck her repeatedly. His heart gave a painful thud and concern quickly followed. She’d tried to hide it from them. Had lied about it.

Jaw tense, Sherlock took the used towel back from Vivian. "Is that all of them?"

"Yes," she said curtly. "My shoulder is the only other injury, and I didn't cover that one up."

Even with her fair skin marred by violence, she still managed to look defiant. Only a handful of John’s patients over the years had been victims of abuse. The ache in his heart grew. He’d never thought he’d have this conversation with someone he knew, someone he cared for.

"Sherlock," John said, quietly. "Would you mind leaving the room? I need to speak to Vivian alone."

Sherlock stiffened, and his gaze snapped to John’s. Tension radiated from Sherlock the way heated air shimmered off hot pavement. John silently beseeched him to cooperate. Releasing a breath, Sherlock finally gave a terse nod and turned to leave, but Vivian leaned forward and caught his elbow. "Wait. That's not necessary. Will you two please quit jumping to conclusions and let me explain?"

Sherlock swung back around, eyebrows high on his forehead. "Oh, I'm all ears, Miss Walker."

John poked Sherlock in the chest. "Quit looming over her and go sit down."

Sherlock threw him an irritated glance and backed up a step, but refused to sit. "The truth, Vivian."

She shook her head. "You don't understand. I asked for this.” She waved a hand at her bruises.

John's mouth fell open. "You _what_?"

Even Sherlock looked gobsmacked.

John eyed the disturbing marks, then slowly shook his head. "No. Sorry. I’ve seen a lot in my day, but that doesn't look the least bit recreational."

It was Vivian's turn to gape. "What? No, it's not a fetish. I don't _enjoy_ it."

"While that's a relief, you're not explaining yourself very well," Sherlock said.

She threw her hands up in the air. "I'm not used to explaining myself to anyone!”

"Yes, well, welcome to having friends," John snapped.

That seemed to stun her, and she blinked at him. "Oh."

My God. Vivian was nearly as bad as Sherlock at this. What had she thought? That they were interrogating her for their own sick entertainment? Releasing an exasperated sigh, John sat down on the nearby swivel chair and folded his hands. "Right. Why don't we start over?"

"Yes, I-" She sputtered for moment, then shook her head. "Look, my job isn't the safest."

Last John had checked, Vivian was still an organizational psychologist who consulted with companies on how to improve their efficiency. It didn't sound terribly dangerous to him.

"While an effort is made to ensure everything is kept confidential, there have been a few times when my work was compromised." Her gaze went distant. "There's nothing quite like an angry executive who finds out some woman has recommended his dismissal. Their reaction can be unpredictable."

Was she saying some ex-employee out for vengeance had done this to her? John was still confused. Sherlock only watched her, his face impassive.

"In order to keep myself safe, I took up private, specialized defense lessons a few years back."

"Very specialized," Sherlock said. "You've been taught kick-boxing and gymnastics, and now you're learning street-fighting, judging by your arms."

"Yes, real life fighting with everyday objects." She pointed to the inside of her arm. "This is from a rolled up magazine and the other one is from an umbrella."

The pieces were beginning to come together now. This explained how she'd managed to hold her own against Sherlock during their brawl, and her fast reaction time when she'd hit Renee, but Vivian's preventative measures still seemed rather excessive to him unless-

"Someone hurt you before. That's why you're doing this, isn't it?" John blurted out.

A shadow passed across Vivian's face. It was answer enough, but she nodded.

"Is that how you got your head injury?" John asked.

Almost reflexively, her hand rose up to touch the back of her head. Her expression shuttered. "No, that was something else." She dropped her hand and offered him a crooked smile. "So. Now that you know why I'm all banged up, can we get back to my ears now?"

Right. It appeared their little sharing time was over. Good Lord. John had thought Sherlock was private, but Vivian was a vault. "Of course. Once I finish examining your shoulder and treating your bruises."

She held out her arms. "Examine away, Doctor Watson."

It took him but a few minutes to determine that her shoulder had only been bruised on top, probably from the umbrella, the range of motion normal. John opened a cabinet and took out two instant cold packs. Using a bandage, he secured them to each arm. "This will help with the swelling."

John picked up the otoscope. This time she didn't tense up. "I know your ears are sensitive, so I'll be careful. If I hurt you, let me know, and I'll stop, alright?"

She nodded.

He eased the tool into her right ear and turned the light on. The ear canal looked perfectly normal, no signs of inflammation, swelling, or scar tissue. The same was true for her left one. "I don't see any visible signs of damage. That means the affected area is either deep within your inner ear or-" He hesitated.

"Or what?" Vivian asked.

"Or the damage is a result of your brain injury and neurological in nature. Consequently, that would make it more difficult to treat." Of course, that could also make it impossible to treat, but there was little use in mentioning that at the moment. They needed more information.

"Why don't we head over to the room where the audiometer is so I can test your hearing?" John said.

He led Sherlock and Vivian back down the corridor, then through a door on the left. Inside the large room was a small, black sound booth with a window in its side.

"You're in luck. Our old machine recently died, but Sarah knows an ear, nose, and throat specialist. He recently upgraded his machine and donated one of his older models to our office." John tapped the device that sat on a cart in front of the sound booth. He picked up a sleek pair of headphones and opened the door to the booth, gesturing for Vivian to enter.

"I'm glad I'm not claustrophobic,” she said as she took a seat. "Why is the glass window opaque on my side?"

"It's to remove any outside variables that may influence the test results. Now, you're going to a hear a tone in either ear. Raise the corresponding hand when you do. If it hurts, we can stop. There's a speaker in the wall so we can hear you, but you won’t be able to hear us. Any questions?"

She shook her head, and he placed the headphones over her ears and adjusted them until they fit properly. Then he took a step back and shut the heavy door. It shushed closed.

Sherlock eyed the audiometer. "When I was seven, one of my tutors pestered my mother into getting my hearing tested."

John turned the machine on and snorted. "Something tells me it was a case of selective hearing."

"Yes. He was an idiot."

John fiddled with the settings of the machine, then checked on Vivian. She was staring at her hands, expression calm. Good. Now was the time to start.

"We'll begin with 20 hertz," John said and pushed the button. Both he and Sherlock watched Vivian, but she didn't move. When he increased the tone to 22 hertz, she raised her right hand.

"Is that normal?" Sherlock asked.

"Considering she's had trauma to her brain, yes. 20 hertz is the lowest frequency the human ear can hear, so the difference isn't that much." He began to raise the frequency in short increments, slowly approaching the upper range of human hearing. When he reached 20 kilohertz, Vivian's hand continued to raise in accordance with the tones.

John frowned down at the readout on the machine.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"It's strange she can hear this high. The upper frequencies begin to shrink around age eight. Usually only young children are capable of hearing within this range, not your average thirty-three year old woman."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Average?"

John gave a wry chuckle. "Right, I should know better. She’s anything but." He stopped the current tone and waited until Vivian visibly relaxed again.

"It might prove more expedient to go to a higher frequency and then come back down," Sherlock said.

"No, it wouldn't. Under ideal conditions, the upper limit of human hearing is 28 kilohertz. She won't be able to hear anything beyond that."

"Then it won't matter." Sherlock reached out and turned the dial up to 30 kilohertz. Before John could react, he pressed the button for her right ear.

Vivian's head shot up, and her hand jerked upward, clearly startled by the sound.

John stared. That wasn't possible.

Sherlock increased the setting again, this time to 50 kilohertz, more than double the normal hearing range. He pushed the button, this time for her left ear.

“Ow!” Vivian tore off the headphones. "How can anyone stand this?"

John stood there for a moment, completely dumbfounded, then walked over to the door and opened it. "You really heard all that?"

"’Course I did. I'm not deaf." Vivian grimaced and stepped out of the booth, rubbing her ear. Her expression turned wary. "Why are you both looking at me like I'm an interesting bug?"

John realized he was still gawping at her and cleared his throat. "Sorry, your results were rather surprising. According to the machine, you can hear what cats or dogs can hear."

She chuckled. "Very funny. What did it say, really?"

"John's serious," Sherlock said, looking over the printed report.

"What?" Vivian exclaimed. "How is that possible?"

"It's not." John frowned. "The audiometer has to be malfunctioning. We haven't used it much, but I thought Doctor Sharpe came in and calibrated it after delivery. I suppose it could have gotten damaged during transit."

Sherlock set the paper down. "There's nothing wrong with the machine. I can prove it to you."

"Oh really?" John asked, folding his arms.

"Yes. All it would take is one simple test." Sherlock raised an expectant brow at Vivian. "Well?"

"Is it short?"

"Very."

"Fine. One more. But I'm going home afterward."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "Excellent. Go to the corner and face the wall."

Vivian did as he'd asked.

Sherlock reached for his coat pocket, then stopped. The careless arrogance in his face shifted, changing to a frown. Striding forward, he grabbed a chair beside the audiometer and brought it over to her. "You'll want to sit down."

“I will?" Her questioning gaze searched his.

"You should sit down," Sherlock amended. He hesitated, then appeared to come to a decision of some kind. "I don't think telling you this will skew the results, but this next test will hurt, likely more than the last one."

A nod. "Right. Well, what else is new?" She gave him a small smile and patted his chest. "Thanks for the warning."

John blinked at the casual touch. While Sherlock had no problem invading other people's personal space as he saw fit, only Mrs. Hudson had managed to circumvent Sherlock's armored bubble to give him the rare affectionate hug or shoulder squeeze. No one else dared. Either Vivian hadn't gotten the memo about Sherlock's distaste for physical contact, or she had, and she'd burned it.

As Sherlock walked back over to him and Vivian settled into the chair, John realized Sherlock hadn't reacted negatively to the contact. In fact, he hadn't reacted at all, almost as if the touch were perfectly commonplace. Strange.

Once again, Sherlock reached for his pocket. This time, he pulled something out and held it up for John to see. It was small, silver, and cylindrical. The fluorescent lights glinted off it. When Sherlock moved it to his mouth, it finally clicked in John's brain.

It was a dog whistle.

Sherlock blew a sharp breath into it.

Vivian shrieked, and her hands slammed over her ears. Sherlock jerked the whistle away from his mouth, and she collapsed at the waist, head falling forward to rest against the wall.

John rushed to her side. "Are you alright?"

Her hands slowly slid away from her head, and she let out a groan. "Yeah. I just need a minute."

John dampened a towel and put it on the back of her neck, and she sighed. "Thanks."

After a long moment, a shaky breath escaped her mouth, and she sat up and twisted around to face them. Pain bracketed her mouth and eyes. "What in the bloody hell was that?"

Sherlock opened his palm and showed her. "It was a dog whistle."

She blinked down at it. "A dog whistle?"

"It produces ultrasonic sounds outside the range of normal human hearing," Sherlock said.

Why did Sherlock have a dog whistle on him in the first place? It wasn't as if they encountered threatening animals on a daily basis. John stared at him for a moment, then his breath caught. "You knew."

"I suspected."

"You suspected what?" Vivian asked.

"At _Brackenwood_ , you responded negatively to the shrill sound of a saxophone on the radio. Then at the Victorian pool house, there was the ambulance siren and...additional indicators." His grip tightened around the whistle. "Your reaction to the fireworks firmly established a pattern of sensitivity to higher pitched sounds, but it was only when I recalled you mentioning a lack of buzzing during the power outage that I determined your hearing was outside the normal range. Realizing the hearing test results would be called into question, I brought along a dog whistle as additional proof."

"Oh," she said looking dazed. "So, I really can hear what cats and dogs can."

"Evidently," John said, feeling rather dazed himself. He pulled his notepad out of his pocket and scribbled on it. "I'm writing you a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. That should help with the headache you've no doubt acquired and your bruising. I'll need to look over your test results and make a few inquiries, but I'll contact you as soon as I find out something useful."

Vivian took the prescription from him. "Thank you, John."

"Of course. It's my pleasure."

She slowly rose to her feet. "I don't know about you, but I'm going to head home for tea and a hot bath."

"I'm sure John intends on much the same," Sherlock said.

"I just might," John retorted, unperturbed by the teasing. He was more than secure in his masculinity, and a bath sounded divine. "Don't forget to ice your bruises afterward," he told Vivian as they left the hearing room.

"Yes, Doctor Watson." She gave him a weary salute.

"That reminds me." John reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a lollipop. He handed it to her and smiled. "You were an excellent patient."

Sherlock halted, his hand on the exit door, and eyed John. "She littered the room with cotton balls, attempted to minimize the reason for her visit, and then lied about having any other injuries."

Vivian unwrapped the candy and nodded. "Even I know I was awful, John."

"You didn't see the other patients I had today," John said, shaking his head.

Sherlock held open the door. "They must have been truly terrible if they made Vivian look good."

"Oi. I look just fine, thanks very much," Vivian mumbled around her lollipop.

"Bruises aren't particularly attractive," Sherlock said.

“That's why I was wearing make-up.”

John chuckled. "Let me tell you both about a lad with a sparkler..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this chapter? Were you surprised by Vivian's bruises and hearing test results? Please let me know if you see any mistakes. I really want to fix them!


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning, John came downstairs and found Sherlock at the living room table typing away on a laptop. Of course, it was John’s laptop. Sherlock's proprietary use of his stuff wasn't likely to change anytime soon, so John had finally given up feeling irritated about it. Instead, he'd started changing his computer password every few days. His latest one was 'Sherlockisatosser.' The fact that Sherlock had to have gone through a variety of insults before finding the right one was immensely satisfying.

Humming a cheerful tune, John shuffled around the kitchen and prepared his breakfast. The kettle came to a boil, and he poured the steaming water into their new teapot. He quite liked it. It was black and stout, with a zen vibe to it. Their previous teapot had vanished just after Christmas along with their old, chipped cups. Mrs. Hudson must have thought it was time for a new set. Securing his plate of marmalade toast in one hand and his tea in the other, John sauntered into the living room and settled into the chair across from Sherlock. Eyes busy scanning the computer screen, Sherlock didn't even appear to notice his presence.

John would need his laptop back sooner rather than later if he was going to continue his research for Vivian. Last night's test results had left him at a bit of loss. It was already mind-boggling how Vivian's head injury had stolen her ability to read _and_ given her an audio eidetic memory. But now it had also increased her hearing sensitivity to ultrasonic levels. The woman was a medical marvel. If anyone within the medical community caught word of her condition, it would spread faster than head lice at a primary school. They'd descend upon Vivian en masse, and she wouldn't get a moment's peace. John understood her desire to keep her condition quiet, but her other injuries were another matter. He frowned as he recalled the massive bruises on her arms. She'd better be icing them like she promised.

He swallowed a mouthful of toast. "How did you-"

"Freckles," Sherlock said, still staring at the computer.

"Sorry, what?"

"Vivian has four distinct freckles on her left arm. If one were to connect the dots, they'd form a perfect trapezoid. Since they couldn't have possibly dissolved overnight, it was obvious she was using make-up. I noticed her favoring her left shoulder during our cotton ball competition. Between that and the missing freckles, the leap to why was simple."

John blinked, still hung up on Sherlock drawing geometric shapes with Vivian's freckles. The rather intimate image was clearly lost on Sherlock who'd relayed the information with his usual clinical detachment. "You noticed her freckles?"

"I notice everything."

"Yes, but-"

"You have a scar on your right elbow from a mole removal. Now, shut up and finish your tea. I'm working."

What could he possibly be working on? Sherlock would have told him if they'd received the results from the autopsy or if they had another case. As John polished off his toast, the wrinkles in Sherlock's suit shirt caught his eye. He was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

"Did you sleep at all?" John asked.

Silence.

Fine. Unlike Sherlock, John knew how to be patient. He sat back, savored his tea, and waited. A few minutes later, his mobile chimed.

_I woke up to a bouquet of lilies, a fruit basket, and a box of biscuits at my door. And now someone just tied a “Thinking of You” balloon to the gate. Are you dead? - Harry_

John pursed his lips. Was his sister drinking again?

_Nope. Still breathing. - John_

_Are you sure? Maybe you should double-check._

He ignored the next chime. The gifts had probably been meant for Harriet’s elderly neighbor, Mrs. Tait. Hadn’t she been due for a hip replacement?

A few taps of the keyboard later, Sherlock looked over at him. "I do believe I've underestimated the value of social networking."

"Oh God. Please tell me you haven't joined Facebook."

A snort. “Of course not. I used your account. It was difficult initially to locate anyone with a brain, but eventually a friend of a friend of a friend led me to someone worthwhile. And believe it or not, your gregarious nature, people-pleasing tendencies, and pathetic desire to be everyone's friend finally proved useful for once."

Right. That didn't sound promising. "What are you on about?"

A low, pleased chuckle left Sherlock. "Oh John, the sympathy card, it opens so many doors and so quickly too. It's amazing how fast information can be obtained when it's a request from a noble army doctor wounded for Queen and Country and desperate to find a cure for his ailing sister."

Ailing sister? John set his teacup down with a clunk. "What did you do?"

Sherlock waved a careless hand at the laptop. "I've been making inquiries within the medical and military community regarding Vivian's hearing and vision issues. I substituted your sister, Harriet, for her, of course. While the majority of your contacts were complete rubbish, a few have been most helpful. A Matthew Abbot, he sends his regards by the way, referred me to Connor Padley, who passed me along to Marjorie Wilson. She put me into contact with Doctor Bennett Shaywitz, a world renown professor in dyslexia at Yale University. Within half an hour, he replied back with a diagnosis. If he'd been faster, he'd remind me of me."

The irritation and alarm rising in John over what Sherlock had done abruptly took a back seat. "Wait - he diagnosed Vivian? Without seeing her?"

"He's an expert in his field, John. He didn't need to see her. A list of her symptoms was all he required." Sherlock's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Vivian has pure alexia. It's a rare acquired reading disorder. It's usually caused by damage to the left visual cortex. Those with pure alexia can write, but they can't read - even what they've just written."

John couldn't believe the condition occurred often enough to have an actual name. "Is there any way to treat it?"

"No method has proven effective yet. The most promising involves trying to trick the brain into recognizing consonants and vowels by vocalizing them. It's a very slow and tedious process and not very successful."

"What about her high frequency hearing sensitivity? Did he think that was related?"

"No, he said that involved a different area of the brain and connected me with an audiologist in Monterey, California. Ms. Chambers recommended three methods of treatment. The first option is medication to minimize the stress following an episode, the second is a custom pair of noise cancellation headphones set to filter out the higher frequencies, and the last is desensitization through gradual exposure."

John slowly digested the information. "Sounds like you've been busy being me.” It was difficult to be too upset with Sherlock’s methods when it had gotten them the necessary information to help Vivian so quickly. His mobile chimed twice more. One text was from a platoon sniper from John’s regiment and the other from an old mate from St. Bart’s. They were both asking about Harriet’s “condition.” Right. He was going to have some explaining to do. Maybe he could say his Facebook account was hacked. Yeah, that could work. It wasn’t even a lie, really.

"Indeed. Take a look." Sherlock spun the laptop around to face John.

An open folder displayed a list of thirty pdf files. They were all medical journal articles. John clicked on one. It compared the structural anatomy of hemianopic alexia, whatever that was, with pure alexia. Multiple pages long, it was full of tiny print and various charts. "Did you read all these?"

"No, I just selected them at random,” Sherlock said acidly. “Of course I read them.”

No wonder Sherlock hadn't gone to bed. It must have taken him considerable time and effort to wade through all the medical jargon, let alone comprehend the data charts.

"This file has all the relevant information on it. I've compressed it, so you should be able to email it to Vivian without a problem. She can use her audio software to review it."

"Hang on. You're not sending it to her yourself?"

"Why would I?"

"Sherlock, you just spent all night learning about her hearing and reading disabilities. Not me."

"So? You're her doctor. You're more than capable of reading the information and answering any questions she may have. My work here is done."

John sat back and eyed Sherlock for a moment.

“What?”

"Why did you do all this?"

"What do you mean why? The old woman’s case is on hold until we acquire more information. I was bored." Sherlock retrieved the laptop and began typing again.

Bored -- John’s arse. Sherlock’s words and actions weren’t adding up. When Sherlock was bored, he shot the wall, exploded eyeballs in the microwave, or ransacked their flat in search of a secret stash of cigarettes that no longer existed. The cure for boredom never involved poring through dense medical journals. What was really going on here?

Like Sherlock had taught him, John mentally stepped back from the situation. Distance provided clarity. Next, he identified any anomalies. Anomalies led to patterns. And patterns sometimes painted pictures. Pictures told stories. This time, instead of implementing this exercise on a homicide victim, John used it on Sherlock.

Sherlock had interrupted the Christmas cracker game to prevent Vivian's reading disability from being discovered. He'd aided her during the fireworks show and helped her rebuild her Mind Palace holding room afterward. Next, he’d accompanied her to John's office to ensure she got her hearing checked. Even a blind man would have noticed the tension radiating from Sherlock when Vivian had revealed the bruises on her arms. And then there was the incident with the chair. Sherlock had brought Vivian a chair to sit on and warned her about the imminent pain of the dog whistle test. Courtesy and forethought were the furthest things from Sherlock’s mind, and yet he’d shown evidence of both. Now the man had stayed up all night finding answers for Vivian’s medical condition.

A slow smile spread across John's face. Sherlock was an idiot. He'd become friends, _genuine friends_ , with Vivian Walker, and he didn't even know it.

“Stop smiling," Sherlock said, gaze still on the laptop. “It makes you look like you’ve dropped ten IQ points.”

John’s smile grew. It had taken years before Sherlock had caught on to the fact that John was his best friend. It shouldn't surprise him that Sherlock was oblivious about Vivian. At any rate, it was going to be entertaining to watch Sherlock blindly navigate this new friendship. A friendship with a woman, at that. It was all John could do not to chuckle. "Right. You’d best give me back my laptop so I can send Vivian the email, and then I’ll need to get cracking on those journal articles."

His mobile chimed for the umpteenth time. Right. He also needed to announce the hacking of his Facebook account, else Harriet was going to be buried beneath a mountain of gifts. Before John could do either, Sherlock's mobile rang.

Sherlock set it on the table and put it on speaker. "Lestrade."

"Sherlock,” Lestrade said, sounding strangely hesitant. “I was, erm, wondering if you were still planning on continuing the investigation for the old woman in the alley."

Sherlock frowned. "Of course I am, but my homeless network has been silent so far. Did you find something new?"

"Molly didn't tell you? She finished the autopsy yesterday morning. She said she’d send you the results."

Irritation rippled across Sherlock’s face. “She didn’t.”

"Well, that’s odd," Lestrade said.

It _was_ odd. John wondered if Sherlock had done something to piss her off.

"Why didn’t you call me yesterday?" Sherlock demanded.

"I dunno. I thought you might have been busy or something.” An odd, almost questioning note colored his tone.

Sherlock glared at the phone. "With what? My packed social life? Don't be daft. I'm never too busy for a case. Next time, contact me immediately."

"Alright, alright. Sorry for thinking you wanted a day off. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

John jumped in before the conversation derailed any further. "Did you find out the old woman’s identity?"

"No, her skin was too wrinkled to provide a good print. But you'll both be interested to know what else was found, or rather, what wasn’t." A pregnant pause. "Her kidneys and liver were missing."

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curved. “Fascinating.”

John set his napkin on the plate, equally intrigued. "Just her kidneys and liver, nothing else?"

"All her other organs were left intact."

"Cause of death?" Sherlock asked.

"Liver and kidney failure, apparently." A muffled sound came through as if Lestrade had dropped his phone from his ear. "Anderson – stop. Don't touch anything."

"Why the hell not?" Came a familiar annoying voice.

"The photographers haven't finished yet."

"Well, they better hurry up. I haven't got all day."

"Leave it." Lestrade came back on the line. "Sorry."

Sherlock's gaze sharpened. "You found a body."

"What? Oh yeah, it looks like a drug overdose." A scratching noise, probably Lestrade rubbing at his chin. '''I don't know, but something about it seems a bit fishy. Wanna take a peek?"

"Where?"

"The abandoned Porsche showroom on High Street."

"We're on our way. Handcuff Anderson if you have to." Sherlock grabbed his coat, and John hurried after him.

 

*******

 

The Porsche Center was a massive, sweeping building with floor-to-ceiling glass walls. They were intended to showcase Porsche's glittering vehicles from the road, but it was all empty now. According to an exterior sign, the company had relocated to East London near the airport. As they rounded two parked police cars, an officer walked past and grinned at Sherlock. "Someone's having a Happy New Year."

Sherlock, in high spirits over the upcoming corpse, actually smiled. "I suppose I am."

The officer chuckled and moved on.

That was a bit weird. John gave a mental shrug. They entered the building. Grey flooring stretched out before them, clean except for a few scuff marks here and there. Considering the lack of graffiti and trash, it hadn't been empty long. Without the cars taking up space, the interior was absolutely cavernous. A handful of officers and forensic staff milled about the far corner of the room near another doorway. Thankfully, Anderson was nowhere in sight. Sherlock headed toward the activity, and John followed.

"Mornin' Sherlock, you wanker," echoed a deep voice across the room. That might have been Constable Davies, but John wasn't sure. Good-natured laughter and a few cheers followed. Everyone seemed terribly friendly, which was more than a little strange considering who they were addressing.

"What the hell is going on?" John asked.

"I haven't the faintest," Sherlock said.

The weirdness deepened as they drew closer, and a grinning group of officers surrounded them, every last one focused on Sherlock.

"Good on you, mate!"

"I lost ten quid to Davies."

"I never thought I'd see the day."

"We honestly didn't think you had it in you."

"Congrats!"

A shrill whistle cut through the air, and the group parted, revealing a scowling Lestrade. "Oi, this isn't a party. There's a dead body here. Show some respect."

A few looked shame-faced, but Constable Billy Scott only beamed and clapped Sherlock on the back. "Aww, we're just proud of him is all, Lestrade."

"Yeah, I noticed. Now that you've all got that out of your system, it's time to get back to work." Lestrade made a shooing motion. "Go on. Shove off."

The cheerful group dispersed, leaving Sherlock, Lestrade, and John alone.

"Sorry 'bout that. I told them not to bother you, but they're all a bit giddy, you know?" Lestrade said.

Sherlock said nothing. He was likely reluctant to admit to anyone else that he was just as clueless as John for once.

"Giddy over what?" John asked.

Lestrade's eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead, and he rounded on Sherlock. "You didn't tell him? But you’re best mates."

"Tell me what?" John asked, growing more flabbergasted by the second.

"Well, it's a bit awkward now," Lestrade said.

"Purely for my edification, what exactly was I supposed to have told John?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed.

Lestrade's mouth opened and closed for a moment, then he made a helpless noise. "I thought you would have told him about you and Vivian at the New Year’s Eve party.”

Sherlock's expression cleared. "Oh that. I told John about it yesterday."

"You did?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. I don't see why everyone's making such a fuss. I helped Vivian out on Christmas, then again at the New Year's Eve party, and later on at the morgue."

“The _morgue_?” Lestrade recoiled, and his mouth twisted in disgust. "That's just sick, Sherlock."

"What's wrong with the morgue?" Sherlock asked.

The conversation wasn’t making sense. John raised a finger. "I don't think you're talking about the same thing."

"Yes, we are." Sherlock flicked an arrogant hand at Lestrade. "Spell it out for John, please."

An eye-roll. "We're talking about Sherlock shagging Vivian," Lestrade said.

Sherlock's head whipped around so fast, it was a miracle his neck didn't break. " _What?_ "

The outraged exclamation resounded through the building.

"We're not?"

"No!"

They gaped at one another. John attempted to retract his own jaw, which he was sure had stretched to his navel. He'd thought there'd been a miscommunication going on, but never expected this.

Sherlock was the first to recover. He eyed Lestrade like he was seriously questioning the man's sanity. "I was helping Vivian with her Mind Palace, not _shagging_ her. What on earth made you think that?"

"I have two eye-witnesses,” Lestrade said, looking a bit defensive. “Constable Crothers and his wife said they interrupted you and Vivian mid-shag in the ladies' toilet."

Sherlock's lip curled. "Well, Crothers and his wife need to have their eyes examined. They were both inebriated and tearing at each other's clothing when they entered the loo. Vivian had a hearing episode from the fireworks, and I was helping her recover."

"Oh." Lestrade sounded a bit disappointed.

The absurdity of the situation hit John, and he laughed. "No wonder you're Mr. Popular all of a sudden."

"I don't understand,” Sherlock said. “Why are they all so pleased?"

"Well, Vivian for one thing. She's a bit of a stunner, yeah? And well, it's you." Lestrade shrugged, as if that explained everything.

"They think you've come down to their level. It's made you more human," John added.

Sherlock appeared repelled by the very idea. "Then I'll need to correct their erroneous assumption immediately." He turned as if to go after the group, but Lestrade caught his arm.

"It's a bit late for that. If you try to deny it now, the rumor will only grow."

"For God's sake, this isn't grammar school," Sherlock snapped.

"No, it's worse. It's Scotland Yard. They love a good chin-wag."

“It’ll be a pleasure to disappoint them then."

John blocked Sherlock's path. "Oh no you don't. This has done more for your reputation than any case you could have solved."

"How could this have possibly helped my reputation?" Sherlock asked, his tone scathing.

"Think, Sherlock. Even if they believe it's a one-off, you're one of the boys now. This is going to smooth your path like nothing else. They'll be more cooperative with you and your demands. If anything, you should play it up a bit,” John said.

The irate disbelief on Sherlock's face slowly shifted to one of calculation. Well, well. Would wonders never cease? It appeared he was actually listening.

"He's right," Lestrade said, bobbing his head. "It's silly, but true."

John went in for the kill. "Sherlock, you know corpses. I know people. Trust me on this."

"Fine. It appears I haven't much of a choice anyway. Speaking of corpses, where's the body?"

"This way." Lestrade led them through the door into what had once been an office. A man dressed in business clothes sat slumped against a wall with a syringe near his hand. If not for his grey pallor, he'd have looked like he was having a kip.

"Who found him?" John asked.

"A trio of skater kids."

"Seems like an odd place to shoot-up to me," Lestrade said.

"I've seen stranger places," Sherlock said, slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves.

The dead man had a neatly trimmed beard, wore an expensive looking suit, and polished leather shoes. His coat was draped across his lap, and both of his suit shirt sleeves were rolled up. Sherlock knelt and examined the insides of his arms and wrists. He then slipped off the man's shoes and socks and checked his feet.

"He's not an addict. There are no track marks on his arms or feet. This was his first time using, if he was using at all."

"What? You think he committed suicide?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock picked up the syringe and held it up to the light. A single drop of clear liquid remained. "Maybe he didn't like his car."

A search through the man's pockets revealed a gold pocket watch. "Strange. His wallet is gone, but his watch and wedding band, both valuable, were left behind."

Sherlock lifted the man's eyelids and motioned John closer. "What do you make of this?"

A yellow hue discolored the white surrounding the iris. "That looks like jaundice. It's a common symptom of liver problems." John stopped and stared. "You don't think-"

Sherlock was already moving. He unbuttoned the front of the man's shirt and pulled back his clothing to reveal his lower abdomen. A small, laparoscopic scar, stitches barely healed, marked the man's skin.

Wide-eyed, John dropped down beside Sherlock and probed the man's lower back and abdomen. "It's too hard to tell because of the post-mortem swelling. We won't know for sure until the autopsy."

"Know what?" Lestrade asked.

"Don't you see? They're connected!" Sherlock jumped to his feet, eyes bright with delight. "The old woman and this man. This wasn't an accidental drug overdose or suicide. This was murder!"

"Will someone please explain?" Lestrade said, exasperated.

"The incision appears to be from the removal of his kidneys and liver," John said. "Molly probably found something similar when she completed the old woman's autopsy. Did you look at the autopsy photos?"

"I haven't received them yet, but I can check with her," Lestrade said, frowning. "Do you think someone is selling their organs?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said. “And they're making a pretty penny. Right now, a kidney will sell for £200,000 and a liver for £120,000 on the Black Market."

John let out a low whistle. Between the man and the woman - that totaled over a million pounds.

"If they're just taking people for their organs, why the careful stitches?” Sherlock said. He paced around the empty office, then looped back and stared at the corpse as if he could somehow compel the dead man to speak. "Why stitch you up at all if you were going to die?"

John frowned. "I don't know. It doesn't make sense."

Sherlock picked up a plastic forensic bag and slipped the syringe into it. "Have Molly identify the drug and get back to me immediately." Just as Lestrade reached out to take it, he drew back. "Never mind, I'll do it myself. I’ll get the results that way." Sherlock dropped it into his coat pocket.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about him?" Lestrade asked, nodding at the body.

Sherlock opened the man's mouth. His teeth were white and perfect.

"Late-thirties, physically fit, likes to run. Judging by the watch and his teeth, I'd say he's a dentist or an oral surgeon."

"That doesn't narrow it down much. There are a lot of dentists in London," Lestrade said.

"Fortunately, I can do you one better. This is a man with expensive taste in clothing. This suit is bespoke, custom-made especially for him, likely from a shop on Savile Row." Sherlock reached into the man's front coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. "It's monogrammed with his initials." He held up the corner of the fabric. The letters M.A.W. were embroidered on one corner in a flourishing script. "It's simple. We find the man's tailor, we find him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you amused by Sherlock’s obliviousness? What about his newfound reputation with Scotland Yard? Is this case suitably intriguing? Missing Vivian yet? Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, if you happen to be a Supernatural fan, I’d like to recommend a brilliant fan fiction series written by @hoosiergirl81. It’s called More Than A Feeling. Here’s the link to the first book: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9237932/chapters/20950445 If you like my Vivian, you’ll love her Ruthie. And she writes Dean and Sam like she knows them personally. Give it a try, I promise you won’t regret it!


	10. Chapter 10

John had never been to the posh clothing shops on Savile Row before. Even if he could afford a bespoke suit or a pair of monogrammed socks, he'd never purchase such a thing. He was perfectly content with his own clothing, thanks very much. John knew Sherlock had a personal tailor, but he'd never met him. All he knew was that Sherlock had done the man a favor in the past. While they were well compensated for the independent cases they solved, it certainly wasn't enough for Sherlock to afford an entire custom wardrobe from around here.

"Why can't we ask your tailor about the handkerchief?" John asked as they left the cab.

"Dimitri doesn't rise until the late afternoon. If I were to wake him now, he'd shorten the legs on my next suit in revenge."

"Sounds like an interesting chap."

"Yes, he can be rather temperamental, but his skill with a needle and thread is unparalleled."

Sherlock led the way to a small clothing shop. Deep blue subway tiles decorated the outside, giving it a sleek look. Sherlock tried the handle on the door, then heaved a sigh. "It's locked. This one is by appointment only."

Through a side window, John could see two men hovering around a taller man who had his arms stretched out for measurement. "There's people inside though. Can't we just knock and say we're on police business?"

"They still won't let us in. Clients pay a tremendous amount for one-on-one service, and even if I showed them Lestrade's badge, they wouldn't buy it. Tailors are observant, unlike the rest of the populace."

They continued down the street to the next shop. Thankfully, this one was accepting customers. The open floor plan and exposed black pipes overhead gave the interior a modern warehouse feel. Mannequins boasting various suit styles posed beneath bright halos of light. John followed Sherlock over to a lopsided, angular counter. It looked like the product of a drunken fling between a geometry problem and a Picasso painting. Was it art or an accident the shop couldn’t afford to fix? Lights inside it illuminated a glowing display of watches, wallets, and cufflinks. A man in a pink shirt and paisley tie stood behind the strange structure, carefully weaving a silver thread through a white button. On the counter sat three other button sets, each with a different color thread. Good grief. John had never given a single thought toward the color of his button thread. He'd thought they were all the same, to be honest.

The man looked up, and hazel eyes raked over John, wincing when they reached his shoes. What was wrong with his leather Loake boots? They were a classic.

Sherlock took a step forward. The snooty git’s assessing gaze shifted to Sherlock, then went wide. "I thought Dimitri retired." Alarm filled his tone.

A knowing smirk. "He has. He merely takes on a few projects now and then,” Sherlock said.

Some of the tension left the man’s shoulders. "I see. My name is Elliot Waverly. How may I help you gentlemen?" He glanced at John as if he assumed they were there for him. A bit rude of him, really.

"We're here to see if you can identify the tailor who monogrammed a handkerchief," John said as Sherlock handed it over.

Elliot spread it out flat on the counter, then traced the stylized initials with one finger. "Ah, yes. Andrew Ramroop is the only one who does this particular script. He's got a fine hand. You can find him at Maurice Sedwell, four doors down. Green canopy, you can't miss it." He offered it back.

They exited the shop and continued down the street.

"How did he know about your tailor?" John asked. Elliot had acted like Sherlock was wearing a neon advert for the man.

"The red buttonhole thread on my Belstaff coat. Adding color to a buttonhole is Dimitri's signature so to speak."

"I don’t understand. He didn't make your coat."

"No, he enhanced it. He does more than create custom clothing. In Dimitri's skilled hands, a shirt or coat that was once a manufactured clone becomes one of a kind."

John shook his head. As long as his clothes fit, were practical, and looked nice on him, he was happy. He couldn't care less whether his shirt or trousers were special.

Maurice Sedwell was much smaller than the last shop. Two tall windows framed the door, showcasing four distinct suit styles. They walked inside, and the hubbub of the city faded away. The walls were lined in a shining cherry wood, and John's feet sank into jade green carpet. If it weren't for the displays of ties, jackets, and suit shirts, John would have thought he'd entered a vintage smoke shop. A slender Indian man stood at a long table, scissors snipping neatly away at a long piece of fabric. A cloth measuring tape hung over his shoulders like a scarf. Sherlock and John approached the counter. The man finished a section, and his dark eyes glanced briefly up at them before he continued his work, scissors following along another white line of chalk. "I hope Dimitri is alive and well."

"For the moment,” Sherlock replied. “When he's not busy pickling his liver, he still fashions the occasional suit. He says he won't stop until he's dead."

The scissors slowed, and the cutting ceased. "He'll no doubt leave this mortal coil drunk and with a needle and thread clasped in his cold, Russian hands." A pause. "Considering what happened to his associates, it’s not such a bad way to go."

“Indeed,” Sherlock said.

Right. Definitely a story there. A shame there wasn’t time for it.

Sherlock held out the handkerchief. "Did you make this?"

"I did. Would you like one for yourself?"

"No. The owner of this one won't be needing his any longer. He's dead."

A frown. "I'm sorry to hear that. How can I be of service? Perhaps a suit for the funeral?"

"We need the man's name. His body was found without any identification," John said.

Andrew's gaze sharpened. "While one of you has military bearing, neither of you are Scotland Yard. Shouldn't I be speaking to the authorities?"

"You are. I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, and this is Doctor John Watson. We solve crimes together."

Knowing the arrogant assertion wasn't enough, John handed the man Lestrade’s business card. “You’re welcome to contact Scotland Yard for confirmation. We’re here on their behalf."

"Are you any relation to Mycroft Holmes?" Andrew asked Sherlock, head tilting to the side.

Sherlock’s expression immediately soured.

"Ah.” A quirk of the lips. “You're the brother."

“I used to hold out hope I was adopted, but the DNA test results were irrefutable.”

John snickered. Sherlock had been ten years old when he'd ordered the equipment to conduct his own DNA testing. He told John he'd  repeated the test thirty times before finally accepting its validity.

This seemed to convince Andrew more than anything else, and he nodded. "I'll do what I can to help you, but I have more than one customer with these initials who requested the same script."

Sherlock held up his mobile. "I have a photo of the man in question."

"That will certainly make things easier." Andrew took the phone from Sherlock and peered at it, face grave. "Yes, this is Michael Alexander Wakefield. I finished his suit eight weeks ago."

"Do you have an address or phone number for him?" John asked.

"I'll see what I can find." He disappeared through a door in the back. A few minutes later, Andrew returned with a slip of paper in his hand. "I've written down his office information and home address for you."

"Thank you." John looked it over before handing it to Sherlock. Mr. Wakefield had worked at The Wellington Clinic, a private dental practice in Chelsea.

Sherlock studied the fabric Andrew had been cutting and ran a finger along one dotted chalk line. "You'll want to widen the waist half an inch. Mycroft has been away on business in Italy the past ten days."

A dimple formed beside Andrew's mouth. "I appreciate the tip, Mr. Holmes. Please give my regards to Dimitri."

"I will," Sherlock said, and they left the shop.

Outside, John rang Lestrade on speakerphone and told him what they’d discovered.

"Good work. I think I’ll handle this next bit on my own though.”

"Don't be ridiculous. You couldn't handle the first part without my help," Sherlock said.

"I'm not talking about the bloody case. Mr. Wakefield was married. I'm not about to let you deliver the bad news to his poor wife. She's already going to be traumatized enough as it is."

Sherlock blinked, and John realized he’d completely forgotten about the dead man's family.

"Yes, well, I prefer you handle that part anyhow," Sherlock finally said. "Once you've informed them and gathered any pertinent information about Michael, let me know. I'm going to head to the morgue and run a few tests on the drug in the syringe."

"Fine. Michael's body was transported there earlier if you need to do any further testing."

John ended the call and shoved his mobile into his pocket. "Right. What about me? Is there anything I can do?"

“Oh yes.” Sherlock smiled. “When's the last time you saw the dentist?"

 

*******

 

With John busy investigating The Wellington Clinic under the premise of a toothache, Sherlock made his way to St. Bart's. Thankfully, it was the lunch hour, so he wouldn't have to deal with Molly's hovering presence. He was still annoyed with her for not sending him the autopsy results. When he entered the morgue, however, it wasn't empty. Vivian was seated at the counter, chopsticks in hand above a take-out container.

Sherlock should have expected her as he'd insisted she visit the morgue frequently over the next few weeks to help solidify her new purgatory room. He'd given her his key and told her the best times to avoid people. After last night's hearing disturbance from the dog whistle test, it was even more important she ensured the stability of her Mind Palace.

A welcoming smile spread across her face. "Joining me for lunch?"

"No - better." Sherlock held up the evidence bag containing the syringe. "I'm investigating two murders. Both victims had their kidneys and liver removed."

Vivian’s nose wrinkled, and she dropped a sushi roll back into the carton. "Was it some kind of satanic ritual or something?"

"No, nothing so melodramatic. Simple greed. The organs were likely taken to be sold on the Black Market. I need to determine who’s behind it and how the victims are being chosen." And why they were being stitched up.

“Sounds...fun.” She closed the container and set her chopsticks aside. “Are you, erm, planning on bringing the bodies out right now?"

"Not yet. Oh -- do you want to see them?" His enthusiasm for the case grew all the more in light of her interest. Normally John acted as his sounding board, but Vivian would do nicely. He wouldn't have to repeat himself with her. "I’ll show you."

"Oh no, you really don't have to do that," she said, rising to her feet.

"It's no trouble. I'll just rearrange the testing order I had planned." Pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves, Sherlock approached the fridge where the old woman was stored and smiled. "We'll start with the incision site first and compare the stitches between the two."

Vivian lurched forward and caught his arm, stopping him from opening the metal door. "Sherlock, wait. I don't think I have time for that right now. My lunch break will be over soon, and I still need to go to my Mind Palace."

A strange heaviness rolled through him, leaving his stomach hollow. It took him a second before he identified the unexpected sensation. _Disappointment_. Sherlock’s grip tightened on the fridge handle. "Right. Of course. That’s why you’re here, after all." A surge of irritation followed. What had he been thinking? That she’d come all the way to the morgue to watch him work? "I'll just continue with my original plan then," he said, briskly. Pulling away from her touch, he strode back to the counter and began to lay out the equipment he needed.

Vivian remained where he'd left her. The back of his neck prickled. She was standing there watching him - he could feel it. The heat of her gaze was like a Class 4 laser burning into the back of his skull. He stared into the cabinet he'd just opened. It was full of office supplies. What was he looking in there for? He shut it and swung around. "Don't you have a Mind Palace to tend to?"

"I-I don't want to be in your way." Her uneasy gaze darted from his, and he followed it to the now heavily cluttered counter.

A vial of blood from the old woman sat on top of Vivian's lunch. Beside it perched a microscope, a handful of glass slides, and a jar of methanol. Two trays full of gleaming autopsy tools and a box of nitrile gloves took up the remaining space. There wasn’t any room for her now. "You can pull up a stool to the autopsy table on the far end. I won’t be using it," he said.

She bit her lip. "What about the viewing room?"

Why would she want to go in there when he’d just offered her a perfectly decent spot? The hollow sensation in Sherlock’s stomach turned sharp and twisting. Disconcerted, he shifted his gaze to the viewing room. Vivian would still be able to see into the morgue through the wide window if she needed a frame of reference for her Mind Palace, and the stadium seats were far more comfortable. Any noise he made while working in the morgue wouldn’t reach her. In short, the viewing room was perfectly suited to her needs. He found himself irrationally annoyed by the fact. What was the matter with him? Relaxing his jaw, he answered her. "You may use it. No one will disturb you there."

“Brilliant. Thanks." Flashing a small smile at him, she gave the counter a wide berth and headed for the viewing room door.

He moved the vial of blood off the take-out container. "What about your lunch?"

A grimace over one shoulder. "Just bin it. I doubt I could eat another bite." With that, she quickly left and settled into a chair in the front row of the stadium seating.

He picked up the carton, expecting it to be empty. The solid weight of it startled him. He lifted the lid. It appeared she’d only taken one bite, two at most. He frowned. Vivian never missed a meal, at least not willingly. Had something put her off her food? He sniffed it. Maybe she hadn’t liked it. He tossed it into the bin and studied her through the window.

There’d been relief in her tone when he'd agreed to her suggestion of using the viewing room. Like she’d been glad to leave. He picked up the methanol bottle and stared down at it, without really seeing it. The disappointment welled up inside him again like a stubborn bloodstain, bewildering him. He'd come here with the expectation of working alone - he'd looked forward to it even - and yet when the opportunity had presented itself, he'd jumped at the chance to share his work with her. When had he become so dependent on others? This had to be John's fault. He used to be perfectly content working on his own. Burying the uncomfortable thought, he set the methanol bottle down and picked up the marquis testing reagent.

It occurred to him then that John hadn’t had the opportunity to send Vivian the email informing her of her diagnosis and treatment options yet. It felt strange knowing Vivian's condition when she herself didn’t, but Sherlock wasn’t about to broach the subject with her. It was far better for her to learn about it from John. He would soften the painful blow about her reading disability being likely permanent. John was good at that sort of thing, unlike Sherlock, who’d completely bungled things by calling Vivian illiterate at Christmas. If he never saw that hurt expression on her face again, it would still be too soon.    

A knock sounded, and he scowled. Who would be disturbing him now, and why didn't they just come in? The door wasn't locked. Sherlock marched over and threw it open. The scathing insult died on his tongue.

Victor Trevor grinned at him. "Hello, Sherlock. You haven't changed a bit."

Sherlock's gaze flicked over his old university friend. Victor's signature fedora sat at its usual rakish angle, his dark wavy hair curling just above his ears. A slim, contemporary suit, vintage tie, and designer stubble completed the dapper look. While they occasionally corresponded online, Sherlock hadn't seen Victor in over three years. "I see your style hasn't altered, though I can't say the same about your marital status. What is this, the fourth one gone now?"

"Like I said, you haven't changed a bit."

"Why are you here?"

"I was hoping you might do me a favor." Victor presented him with a wood case and waggled his eyebrows. "I'll owe you one."

"You still owe me from when your bull terrier took a bite out of my ankle."

"It's not my fault you scared Otis. And if I recall, I paid for your stitches and gave you an excellent bottle of Scotch in apology."

"You drank most of it."

An unrepentant shrug. "Fine. I'll owe you double then."

Sherlock opened the case. A four barrel, large caliber howdah pistol was nestled inside. Built in the mid-18th century, they'd been used primarily in defense against tigers, lions, and other dangerous animals found in remote areas under British Colonial rule. "Where did you get this?"

"I was in the area negotiating a merger and stopped off to visit my parents. They found it in a dark, dusty corner of their attic. Mum wants to sell it so they can go on a nice holiday. It doesn't look like it's ever been shot. I thought you might be able to tell."

Victor's visit became clear. If the antique pistol truly had never been fired, the firearm's value would increase substantially. "A careful inspection should provide the answer."

"I knew I came to the right man."

Sherlock stepped aside so Victor could enter the morgue, then moved a tray so he had space on the counter.

A low whistle carried through the room. "Well, well. Who do we have here?"

Sherlock followed Victor's admiring gaze through the viewing window. "Vivian Walker."

"Looks like you bored her to sleep, mate."

"She's not sleeping. She's working on her Mind Palace," Sherlock said, adjusting the height of his microscope.

Victor rounded on him. "Her Mind Palace? You told me you couldn’t teach anyone, that it was _impossible_.”

"Most people don't have the necessary qualities. Vivian did." The threat of death and madness brought a clarity of focus unlike anything else.

"Oh,” Victor said, tone speculative. "Are you two a couple?"

"No." Clearly, Victor had forgotten the rule against asking stupid questions. Sherlock settled the pistol beneath the microscope lens.

"Are you sure?" Victor teased. "The only other woman I've known to voluntarily spend time with you is Mrs. Hudson."

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Fine. If she's not your girlfriend, then what is she? A colleague? A client?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but found he didn't have one. He stalled for time, adjusting the focus of the lens. Vivian's role in his life was hazy. Somehow she'd escaped definition. The realization rattled him. He was accustomed to ambiguity within his cases, not in the people around him. Swiftly, he came to a decision and met Victor's curious gaze. "She's my student." Yes. That clarified things rather well. The agitation brought on by the question quieted.

"Then she's probably in dire need of a break," Victor said wryly. "Is she available, or are you bogging her down with homework every night?"

"I see you're already on the prowl for your next wife. Did you leave your last one content?"

"Oh yes." A lazy grin. "I assure you, every Mrs. Trevor has enjoyed herself immensely. The separations were all amicable, _very_ amicable."

Sherlock didn't doubt him. It had been the same way at university. Victor was a highly successful serial monogamist. He would commit to a woman and shower her with love, attention, and romance. While the length of each encounter varied, the end was always the same. He'd miraculously charm his way out of the relationship, leaving both parties satisfied somehow. To Victor, every woman was an enticing mystery to be solved - picking just one for a lifetime was unfathomable.

"As to your earlier question, yes, Vivian is available. However, I don't believe she's the dating type," Sherlock said. If Vivian had any past relationships, he doubted they'd lasted long. With a father in the military, she'd moved frequently as a child, never forming long-term connections with people. Losing her family had both strengthened and twisted those behavioral patterns.

Victor's steel blue eyes gleamed. "Oh really?" He studied Vivian through the glass, clearly intrigued. "Perhaps she hasn't met the right man."

Too late, Sherlock realized his words had only served to draw Victor in all the more. Oh well. No matter. Vivian would certainly refuse him. This was going to be both entertaining and historic.

Sherlock set the pistol back in the box. "There are faint traces of carbon on the muzzle and flash-hole. This indicates it's been fired before, but the lack of wear on the flint and hammer and the cleanliness of the barrels means it was only shot 6-12 times during testing. A collector will pay upwards of £4,000 pounds for it. I'd say your parents are in for a very nice holiday."

"You are the best of the best, the absolute bollocks, mate," Victor said, beaming at him.

"I know." Sherlock closed the pistol case, and movement in the viewing room caught his eye. Vivian was stretching. She rose to her feet and entered the morgue.

Not wasting any time, Victor strode across the room, hand outstretched. "Hello. I'm Victor Trevor, an old college friend of Sherlock's."

"Vivian Walker,” she said, smiling.

"So I've been told," Victor said, holding her hand for five seconds longer than necessary.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Busying himself at the counter, he continued to watch the scene unfold out of his peripheral vision. He didn't want to miss the first time Victor Trevor was denied a date.

"I like your hat," Vivian said. "Is it vintage?"

"Yes, I got it in a pawn shop in New York. Best souvenir I ever bought."

"Oh, I love New York. The pizza there is gorgeous."

"Isn't it brilliant?" Victor shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the autopsy table. "Did you get a chance to eat at Joe's?"

"Of course. I burnt my mouth on a slice, it was so fresh." Vivian's eyes closed as if in blissful memory.

"I've never found its equal. Were you there for business or pleasure?"

"Business, but I made sure not to miss out on the highlights." She chuckled. "By that, I mean the food."

"What do you do?"

"I'm an organizational psychologist."

Victor's face lit up. "Are you really? I'm a corporate attorney who specializes in business mergers. My clients are always looking for ways to ensure a smooth integration. I'd love to pick your brain.” He tapped the autopsy table. “And by that, I mean conversation, not dissection."

Vivian laughed, looking far more entertained by the quip than was warranted.

Sherlock stopped pretending to sort through a pile of microscope slides. Surely she would shut Victor down now. She'd certainly let the man chat her up long enough.

Vivian’s mouth quirked, and she slowly shook her head. "I don't think you could afford me, Mr. Trevor."

And there it was. The refusal. Subtle, but there nonetheless. Sherlock smirked. Witnessing Vivian turn the other man down was immensely satisfying, almost like solving a case.  

Surprise flashed in Victor’s eyes, but he quickly recovered. A grave nod. "I'm sure you're right. A private consultation with a woman of your expertise must be costly indeed. Although I imagine you're worth every pound."

Her eyes danced in amusement. "Oh yes. Every last one."

"It appears you’ll have to make do without her, Victor," Sherlock said, picking up the reagent bottle.

Genuine regret shadowed Victor’s face. "Yes, what a shame.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage just fine without me,” Vivian said with a soft laugh.

“I’d like to do more than just manage,” Victor said his gaze candid and warm.

Sherlock frowned at Vivian who was watching Victor watch her. Was that a faint echo of warmth in her own eyes? The satisfaction inside him evaporated. As if it had a will of its own, Sherlock’s right hand picked up a small basin and dropped it into the sink. The metallic clang resounded through the morgue like a grenade. Vivian and Victor jumped, then looked over at him.

“Whoops,” Sherlock said flatly, then raised a brow at Vivian. "Don't you have to return to work?"

Green eyes bounced to the analog clock on the wall. "Damn. I've got to go." She grabbed her bag from the counter. "I'll see you later, Sherlock. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Trevor."

"The pleasure was all mine, Miss Walker."

Right as she reached the door, Victor called after her, "I don't suppose I could tempt you with dinner this Friday at The Five Fields then.”

Vivian's hand froze on the latch, and her head whipped around. "The Five Fields? Are you serious?"

"Oh yes. I take my food very seriously."

She released the handle and walked back over to him, expression awed. "But they only have twelve tables, and it takes ages to get a reservation. How could you possibly have one?"

"You'll find I'm an excellent negotiator, Miss Walker." A slow smile. "I'll provide the reservation at The Five Fields if you allow me to consult you over dinner. Think of it as the perfect combination of business and pleasure."

Her head cocked to the side. "Throw in dessert, and you've got a deal."

"Done. Though I confess I fully intended on ordering it anyhow."

"It appears I need a few tips on negotiation."

Victor winked at her. "I know just the man to help." He handed her his business card. "If you text me your address, I'll pick you up at six. Is that alright?"

"That's perfect. I'll look forward it." Grinning, she gave them both a little wave, then dashed out the door.

As soon as it shut, Victor spun around. " _She_ is delightful. And a fellow hedonist at that." He shook his head in wonder. "Who'd have thought I'd find a date in the morgue? That's a new one, even for me."

Sherlock had to force his fingers to loosen their hold on the bottle. "It's not a date; it's a business meeting, and the only reason she agreed to an evening with you is because you bribed her."

"It'll be a date before the night is over, my friend."

The undeniable statement sent something dark coiling through Sherlock's stomach. He had the sudden urge to rip the fedora off Victor's head and shove it down the man's throat.

It must have shown in his expression because Victor took a step back and raised his hands. "Easy, Professor. I promise I won't keep her out too late and disrupt her studies."

"I don't care what you do with her." Sherlock shoved the wood case into Victor's arms, causing the other man to grunt as one corner jabbed him in the stomach. “All I care about is my work. Now, get out."

Victor stared at him in surprise, which was ridiculous since it wasn't the first time Sherlock had ordered him to leave. Victor used to regularly invade Sherlock's lab at university, after all. His head gave a throb, irritating him further. "While I realize your brain has been addled by Vivian's charming presence, your legs are still completely functional. Use them. The door is there."

Victor's eyebrows disappeared behind the brim of his hat. "Right. I'll just get out of your way then. Thanks for the help, mate." Footsteps retreated and the door swung open, then shut.

Jaw slowly unclenching, Sherlock set out a white ceramic plate and placed a small amount of the old woman's blood on it. He removed the syringe from the evidence bag, and did the same with the liquid inside. Turning the marquis reagent bottle upside down, Sherlock allowed a single drop to fall onto each and waited for the color to change.

He released a breath and closed his eyes.

All he cared about was his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think, dear reader? Please let me know!


	11. Chapter 11

John pulled Abigail in for another kiss.

She laughed against his mouth. "If you don't let me go, I'm going to miss the train."

His arms tightened around her waist. "And what would be the harm in that?"

"I'd have to reschedule my meeting with Dr. Schaefer. He's notoriously difficult to pin down, and then I'd miss our date on Saturday. I can't have that; I've got plans for you."

Abigail's job as a pharmaceutical rep had her traveling all over the country. The latest drug she was selling helped prevent postoperative infection.

John made no move to release her. "Perfect, because I've got plans for you as well. Very detailed ones." He itched to tug loose the clip holding Abigail's chestnut curls in place, shove his fingers into her hair, and snog her senseless. Knowing she’d be hacked off if he messed up her hair, he let his hand wander over her hip instead. Her gorgeous curves put the Venus di Milo to shame.

"If you're good and let me go, I'll have a surprise for you when I return," she whispered.

"Is it a naked one?"

A snicker. "That would be telling. Are you going to be good?"

John nipped at her ear. "I can be very good,” he said, voice low.

Her breath hitched. "You're making it very hard for me to leave."

“How very rude of me.” He trailed his nose down her neck, taking in her sweet fragrance: peaches and cream and pure Abigail. Craving the taste of her, he lowered his mouth-

The door to his office opened.

Abigail squeaked and jerked away, breaking John’s hold on her.

“Oh! Sorry, Doctor Watson. I'd thought you'd left already.” Sharice, one of the nurses, quickly set a chart on his desk and backed out of the room with an apologetic smile. “I'll make sure no one else disturbs you.”

Right. A bit late for that. He was going to lock the bloody door next time.

“I really have to go, John,” Abigail said, cheeks pink.

It was tempting to continue where he’d left off, but he knew she was right. He sighed. "Text me when you get there."

“Of course.” She pressed a hard, fleeting kiss to his mouth, then fled.

John fell into his office chair with a groan. They'd been dating for just over four months, and he couldn't get enough of her. This was the first relationship he'd had where his frequent escapades with Sherlock weren’t a problem. Abigail understood when he had to cancel their plans at the last minute, just like he took her frequent travel in stride. They made the most of their time together, and he relished every minute spent with her. Judging by Abigail’s enthusiastic response to him, he was fairly certain she felt the same. Her orange tabby, Rusty, even seemed to like him, which was a miracle since he’d always thought cats hated everyone on principle.

With a great deal of effort, John dragged his thoughts away from Abigail and glanced through the chart Sharice had left him. He made a few notes, then dropped it into his outbox. After answering a few emails, he wrapped up his dictation for the day. It went quickly since he'd only had to work half a shift. He binned the remnants of his and Abigail's hasty lunch and stood. It was time he checked on Sherlock. He'd been holed up in the lab for the past two days, running every available test on their two murder victims. John had popped in a few times, but Sherlock hadn't been in the mood to converse, far too focused on finding answers, so John had left him alone.

John's casual inquires of the staff and patients at The Wellington Clinic had revealed that Michael Alexander Wakefield had been a very popular dentist, a massive achievement, considering the man's profession. An old army veteran in the waiting room had regaled John with stories of Michael's generosity. Michael's brother, George, had been killed on tour in Iraq. As a way of honoring him, Michael offered a considerable discount to service men and women. The staff had been equally effusive in their praise. "He gave me time off when my son, Jimmy, was ill. Sent a care package, too. I've never had a nicer boss," the front receptionist had confided in him.

A portrait of Michael’s lovely wife and two children hung in pride of place on the office wall. Lestrade had reported that Leslie, Michael's wife, had been devastated by the news. She insisted that Michael would have never done drugs. He'd been scheduled to participate in a half marathon that weekend raising money for wounded veterans. Michael had left the previous week for two back-to-back dental conferences, one in Rome, the other in Madrid. While he usually checked in when traveling, his mobile had been acting up after it had been dropped in the bath by one of the kids. Leslie had assumed Michael's phone had died and that he would contact her on his way home. According to the flight records, Michael had never boarded the plane, and the conference attendance sheet also confirmed his absence. Where had the man been the whole week? Hopefully, Sherlock had made some progress on the case, because the only thing John had discovered was more questions.

 

*******

 

John exited the cab and approached the entrance to St. Bart's. A flash of red hair, just off the main path, caught his eye. It was Vivian. The cheerful greeting froze in his throat.

She was bent forward at the waist, arms locked around her middle. Her handbag lay on its side at her feet.

Alarmed, he rushed to her side. "Are you alright?"

Vivian gasped, straightening so fast she backed into the brick wall behind her. “John.” She leaned against the building, affecting a casual I-meant-to-do-that pose. “Oh yes. I’m fine.”

Ashen skin and shallow breathing were quickly added to John’s list of evidence to the contrary. When he’d checked in with Vivian earlier in the week, she'd said the anti-inflammatory pills had helped ease the discomfort from the dog whistle test and her self-defense class injuries. Any allergic reaction would have shown up in the first few days of taking the prescription, not now. This had to be something else.

“Vivian," he said, using his Doctor Voice.

The tense line of her shoulders broke, and she wilted. “Sorry. Force of habit. I suppose I’m a bit...not fine."

After going through the medical journal articles Sherlock had gathered, Vivian had talked it over with John and decided on trying the desensitization method suggested by the audiologist. John had cautioned her to wait until she was fully recovered before doing so and to take it slowly if she did, but maybe she hadn't listened. “What’s wrong? Is it the desensitization process?”

“No, I didn’t start it yet.” Vivian grimaced, cradling her stomach. "I think my lunch disagreed with me."

"You didn't eat the cafeteria food here, did you?" After his time in the army, John could pretty much stomach anything, but even he thought the stuff they served here was dreadful.

A shudder ran through her. "God no. You couldn't force me to eat that slop."

Hmmm. Maybe she'd caught the stomach bug that was going around. It had put a number of his patients flat on their backs recently. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a peppermint. "Try this."

"Ta." She rolled it around in her mouth for a moment, face lifted to catch the cool breeze. Ever so slowly, the color returned to her cheeks. A soft exhale. “I feel a bit better now.”

"I’m glad. If it gets worse later on, let me know."

A smile formed on her face, and she gave him a quick hug, surprising him. “You're a good friend, John Watson. I'm lucky to know you.”

“Careful, or I might get a big head,” he said, grinning.

“I think Sherlock's got that covered for the both of you.”

John laughed. “How's he doing today?”

She hesitated, gaze dropping to the scraggly, winter-browned grass. “I don't know, really. He's been busy working on the bodies. I've been in the viewing room trying to stay out of his way.” Bending down, she picked up her handbag, then dusted it off. “I better get back to work.”

He reached into his pocket again and offered her a few more peppermints. “You’d best take some for the road.” Sometimes the cabbies around here weren’t the smoothest of drivers. “Please call me if you need anything at all,” he urged her.

“Don’t worry, John. I will.” She patted his arm.

Of course, in Vivian-speak that meant, “I’ll only call you if I’ve been completely dismembered, and even then I’ll probably wait til I’ve nearly bled out because I don’t want to be a bother, and I hate asking for help.”

Considering how stubborn she was, John supposed he should reinforce any sign of cooperation, no matter how small. He nodded. “Good. See that you do.”

“Thanks again, John.” She headed down the path, then tossed a smile at him over her shoulder. This one was much brighter than the last, another small sign she really was feeling better. He returned it, relieved, but still watched to make sure she made it safely into a cab before he entered St. Bart's.

As he walked into the morgue, the sweet, cloying stench of chemical disinfectant burned his nose. The cleanser had seen a lot of use lately due to the extensive autopsies being performed on Michael and the old woman. John found Sherlock standing at the counter brooding down at a grey scarf like it was deliberately withholding evidence from him.

"Is that a new clue from the case?" John asked.

Sherlock's head snapped up. "What? No." He turned away and busied himself at the sink. "It’s Vivian’s. She left in a rush."

“Yeah, I saw her outside. She didn't look well - a bit peaky."

Sherlock's hand paused for a split second as he scrubbed at a metal basin. “Knowing you, I'm certain you didn't leave her side until you diagnosed the cause of her distress and remedied it.”

Of course Sherlock couldn't ask him outright if Vivian was okay like a normal person. That would imply he cared, and God forbid that ever happened. Instead, Sherlock had to subtly fish for more information. John decided he wasn't going to play along. He shook his head. "Not this time. She was leaning against the wall and didn't look like she wanted company. I decided to let her be and came inside."

Sherlock twisted around to face him, leaving a dripping trail of disinfectant, water, and blood across the floor. "You just left her there?"

The smile tugging at John's mouth broadened into a grin. That had been far too easy.

The indignant expression on Sherlock's face vanished, replaced with a frown. "You're winding me up."

"And you must be really tired for not realizing it sooner." Normally Sherlock wouldn't have believed him for a second.

Not bothering to respond, Sherlock finished washing the basin and put it away. Dark circles smudged the pale skin beneath his eyes. Over the past few days, he'd only stopped at their flat long enough to shower and change his clothes. It was clear he hadn't slept because his bed was still made from when Mrs. Hudson had tidied it earlier in the week.

John took pity on him. "Vivian seemed better when she left for work. The outside air and a peppermint did her some good, I think. I've had a number of patients complaining of stomach trouble lately, so maybe that was it.”

"I see.” A pause. “Are any of your patients complaining of headaches?" Sherlock dropped a pair of scalpels into the sterilizer. His casual tone made it sound like he was inquiring about the weather, or making idle conversation. Neither of which ever he did.

The alarm bell tolled in John's head for the second time today, and he pulled out a stool and took a seat. “Right. How long have you been having them?”

“What makes you think I’m inquiring about myself?”

“Because I’m not an idiot, Sherlock. Patients call all the time asking overgeneralized medical questions when they’re really asking about themselves. It’s either that or on behalf of a hypothetical friend.” He raised his eyebrows. “So, I’ll ask you again. How long have you been having them?”  

“Hmph.” The small sound somehow managed to convey both annoyance and reluctant approval at the same time. Sherlock reached down and wiped up the mess on the floor, then tossed the rag in the sink. "I’ve been having them off and on since Christmas," he muttered, looking mutinous. "Sometimes it's a sharp pain behind my eyes, other times a dull, throbbing ache. It comes and goes without any discernible pattern. Paracetamol isn't helping anymore."

"Well, it could have started from that bad spot of weather we had at Christmas. Changes in the barometric pressure can sometimes cause headaches. Also, you've been burning the candle at both ends this week. You're eating very little and haven't been sleeping. I'm sure that would give anyone a headache."

"Don't be daft. I'm not just anyone. I've managed for much longer before without a problem."

"You aren't getting any younger. Your body might not be able to tolerate this kind of abuse anymore."

"I'm thirty-eight; I'm not ancient."

"Is your vision blurry at all? Any halos around lights?"

An eye-roll. “I know what a migraine is. My mother used to get them. It’s not that.”

“Well, if it it runs in your family, you’re more likely to get one, especially if you're stressed.”

“I'm not stressed," Sherlock half-shouted, scrubbing at his head with both hands.

“Yes, I can see that. I'll tell you what. I'll write you a prescription for an anti-inflammatory like I did for Vivian, but only on two conditions. One - you eat something substantial before you take it. I'm talking about an actual meal with meat and veg. The medication will upset your stomach otherwise. Two - you sleep for at least six unbroken hours tonight.”

A muscle in Sherlock's jaw tightened, then slowly released. “Fine. I agree to your terms.”

The quick capitulation told him that Sherlock was experiencing more discomfort than he was letting on. John would need to keep an eye on him over the next few days to ensure there wasn't anything else amiss. Between Sherlock and Vivian, and his own stubborn patients, John had his work cut out for him. "Good. Now, please tell me you’ve found something while you’ve been locked up in here."

A spark of renewed energy flared to life in Sherlock's eyes. "I certainly have.” He strode over to one of the autopsy tables and whipped back the sheet with a flourish. "Look," he said, pointing at the inside of the old woman’s arm. What appeared to be a thick, raised vein looped in an oval shape beneath the woman's skin.

John pulled on a pair of gloves and gently probed the area. "That's tubing."

"Yes, it's an arteriovenous graft for vascular access used for dialysis."

An AV tube graft was a looped plastic tube connecting an artery to a vein. It allowed large amounts of blood to flow into a dialysis machine for filtering.

"That doesn't make any sense," John said. "Why would they take her kidneys if she was on dialysis? No one would purchase damaged organs."

“You're right. They wouldn't.” Sherlock’s smile widened. “But Molly and I didn’t find any evidence of long term kidney or liver problems in either victim. Curious, isn't it?” He sashayed back over to the counter then whirled about, brandishing a vial containing a purple liquid. “It gets even better, John. The syringe found next to Michael's body came up positive for heroin, and his blood work revealed the same. It's clear he died from it, but the amount given to him shouldn't have been enough to kill a man of his size and health."

"You're sure it wasn't an overdose?"

A withering glance momentarily disturbed his gleeful expression. “Don’t ask stupid questions. Of course, I’m sure. Michael died because he was given heroin _after_ his kidneys and liver were removed."

At that, John's mouth fell open. “Who would remove someone’s organs then dose them with heroin? That’s just mad.”

“Mad and devious,” Sherlock said, with a low, pleased chuckle. “The heroin nearly managed to mask the evidence from me, but while cross checking the results with Molly, I discovered a small trace of an unidentified substance in Michael’s blood.” He paused, eyebrows raised like his words were supposed to mean something. It made John want to smack him with the autopsy hammer.

“Stop making that face. I still don’t understand what’s going on.”

"Think, John.” Sherlock flung a hand at the bodies. “Both victims had their organs taken. Both in good health. One shows evidence of dialysis, the other a trace of an unknown substance. Can’t you see it?”

“See what?”

“Seriously? How can you not-”

The rib shears were looking more appealing. “Quit being a diva, and just tell me.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Remember Baskerville?"

John's stomach lurched as he put two and two together. "Oh my God. You think they're being experimented on."

“Yes.” The triumphant expression returned. "I believe someone is funding their medical research through the sale of harvested organs, then experimenting on the victims while they're still alive, hence the postoperative stitches. The old woman was made to look like a mugging gone wrong, and Michael an accidental overdose. Whoever they are, they’re working very hard to cover their tracks.”

John stared over at the two bodies in horror. “Those poor people.” He couldn’t imagine what they must have gone through.

“I still haven't figured out how they're being chosen,” Sherlock said with a scowl. "It can't be at random. I know there’s a pattern, but I need more data. Until then, we're at a dead end."

A sudden thought occurred to John. “Can I see Michael's toxicology report?”

Sherlock fished through a stack of documents, then handed it to him. “Since none of the databases I accessed were able to identify the substance, it’s likely someone’s experimental, synthetic drug.”

John took a photo of the report using his mobile. “I'll send it to Abigail. Maybe she's come across something structurally similar while researching the latest drug trials for work.”

"If she has, she'll be the first of your girlfriends to prove useful.”

“I find her very useful.”

“I'm referring to intellectual pursuits not carnal relations.”

John shook his head. “You're really missing out, mate.”

"I'm really not."

The adamant certainty in Sherlock's voice made John chuckle. “Are you planning on coming home now or later?”

“Later. I've got a mess to clean up.” One of Molly's requirements for Sherlock using the lab was that he left it cleaner than when he'd found it. The one time he hadn't complied, she'd refused him access to body parts for an entire month. John knew Sherlock wouldn’t make the mistake a second time.

“Right. I think I'll stop by Vivian's work on the way home and drop her scarf off for her. I'll pick up your prescription while I’m out." John scooped up the scarf and stuffed it in his coat pocket. “I’ll see you later.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled the sheet back over the old woman’s body.

 

*******

 

On the cab ride to Cubic Systems, John fidgeted with his mobile. Should he or shouldn't he? Indecision gnawed at his insides. It wasn't like he was relaying information to the enemy or anything. They were on the same side, after all. Mostly. Sherlock would be furious if he found out though. Should he risk it?

The misting rain outside obscured the cab window for a moment until the water melded together and dripped down the pane, leaving behind a clear path. Yes, he should. The fact that Sherlock had broached the subject himself convinced him. John opened up the contacts on his phone and selected one he rarely used.

 _Sherlock's complaining of headaches. Said he's been having them off and on since Christmas._ _-JW_

He kept his phone in hand, knowing he wouldn't have to wait long. Three breaths later, his mobile chimed.

_How is his emotional state? -MH_

John stared down at the non sequitur, perplexed. An inquiry from Mycroft regarding Sherlock's emotional health was the last thing he'd expected.

_He's the same as always. -JW_

John almost added, "Emotionally stunted, like you," but he refrained. That wouldn't have been fair to Sherlock. While Sherlock's emotional range was admittedly limited, John still caught a glimpse every now and then of the man's heart. He had one, albeit slumbering away in some logic-induced coma most of the time. It was evident in his care for his friends, especially with Vivian as of late. Mycroft, on the other hand, was disconnected from humanity - set apart. He had no friends, only minions. While he professed to worry about Sherlock, there didn't appear to be any genuine brotherly love there, only family duty, as if he were following a strict set of orders from a superior.

_Inform me if his headaches worsen, or if you notice any unusual behavior. -MH_

Right. That was both cryptic and completely unhelpful. Sighing, John paid the cabbie, then walked up the front steps to Cubic Systems. The modern tower was a mass of black mirrored windows, interspersed with broad lines of concrete. A pair of sliding doors soundlessly opened, allowing him entry. Two women dressed in posh business attire sat behind a broad granite counter with headsets on. One was busy scheduling an appointment, while the other stared at a computer. Behind them loomed a sleek, glass lift.

The blonde looked up and and gave him practiced smile. "Welcome to Cubic Systems. How may I help you?"

John stepped forward. "Yes, I just wanted to drop off a scarf for Vivian Walker."

Her thin brows drew together. "Vivian who?"

"Walker. She just started here a few weeks ago."

“Let me check for you.” She slowly pecked at the keys with her index fingers. “Walker, you said? Spelled like it sounds?”

“Yes,” John said, forcing a smile. “You know, like what elderly people use to shuffle around, or that American television show with the Texas Ranger?” He hummed a few bars of the appallingly catchy theme song. Mrs. Hudson had made John watch it with her a few times. He reckoned she fancied Chuck Norris, the main star. The show wasn’t half bad, really.

The woman’s frown deepened.

Brilliant. He’d managed to confuse her even more. At this rate, John was going to need a walker by the time she was done.

After a few more ponderous taps and clicks, she blinked at the computer, then looked up at him. "I'm sorry, but we don't have anyone here by that name."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \----------------------------------------  
> *waggles eyebrows* So, what did you think? If you’re curious about Walker, Texas Ranger. Here’s a YouTube link with the intro and theme song. It’s a hilariously cheesy show from the 90s. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIYZVSElmj4


	12. Chapter 12

John folded his arms. "Are you absolutely sure?" He wasn’t about to trust the woman’s shoddy typing skills. They were worse than his.

She sighed, then glanced over at her co-worker, who'd just finished a call. "Chalice, does a Vivian Walker work here? This man says he has her scarf."

"I’ve never heard of her. Are you sure you've got the right building?"

John pursed his lips. Typical corporate office. They likely had so many employees here that no one knew anyone's name. Perhaps everyone went by a number instead. "Yes, I'm positive. She's rather difficult to miss. Tall, ginger hair, green eyes. Ring a bell?"

Chalice put a manicured hand to her mouth and gave a tinkling laugh. "I think you mean Miranda Blythe. You must have had quite a night if you got her name wrong. Get a bit sloshed, did you?"

"No, that's not her," John insisted. He'd thought dropping Vivian's scarf off would have been a simple matter, but these women couldn’t be more unhelpful. He wasn't about to leave the scarf here with them; Vivian would never get it. And he didn’t want to bother Vivian by ringing her up now. "You know what? Forget it. I'll just give it to her myself later."

Chalice shrugged. "Suit yourself."

John left the building in a huff. He hoped Vivian had those two on her list to sack. If not, then she certainly would after he told her about it.

 

*******

 

Sherlock stomped his way up the stairs to 221B. If only they had another body. A third one would provide the final clue as to how they were being chosen, he just knew it. But until another corpse turned up, he was going to be stuck waiting for answers. Wrenching the door open, he found John watching some rubbish show on the telly.

John nodded toward the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson dropped off some leftover stew, and your prescription is on the table."

Sherlock kicked the door shut, settled his coat on the hook, then headed into the kitchen. He stuck the covered bowl into the microwave and scowled as it spun on the turnstile. He was on a case, and he was _eating_. This was an abomination. He was breaking his own rules, rules he had for a reason.

Food was a distraction. It redirected blood flow from the brain to the stomach, inhibiting cognition. And sleep? Sleep was a waste of time, time that could be better spent doing something else - anything else. All those hours lying still and insensible to the world. Nothing was more boring than that. The microwave beeped, and Sherlock set the bowl down on the kitchen table with a thunk. He uncovered it, and the room filled with the savory aroma of beef, celery, and bay leaves. He sat, stabbed a spoon into the stew and began to eat. The potatoes and carrots fell apart on his tongue, and a hint of black pepper warmed the back of his throat. The stew was hearty, fragrant, and flavorful. He wanted to chuck it across the room. Vivian should have been eating this, not him. She was the ruddy hedonist. A single bite would have had her humming in pleasure. Sherlock could practically hear her now.

The dull ache in his temples increased, and he closed his eyes. The headache had plagued him off and on since Victor's triumphant exit from the lab. The following day, it hadn't bothered him much during the old woman's autopsy, but it had returned in the afternoon. Vivian had come in for her lunch hour, but instead of her usual friendly conversation, she'd marched past him into the viewing room, worked on her Mind Palace, and then left with a barely muttered goodbye. Yesterday, her strange behavior had continued. And today, while he'd been carefully cutting into Michael's incision site stitches to see if he could match them to a manufacturer, she'd fled before her lunch hour was even over, as if she couldn't bear to be there a minute longer. She’d been in such a hurry, she'd forgotten her scarf on the way out. Sherlock had almost gone after her to demand an explanation, but he'd hesitated and lost the chance. His headache had worsened then, a heavy drumbeat in his temple. It had been so loud, he hadn't heard John enter the morgue.

John's comment about Vivian looking unwell had startled him. Of course, Sherlock hadn't had much of a chance to get a close look at her lately, not with the way she'd been acting. In a bizarre move, she'd taken to sitting in the back row of the viewing room as far from the window as possible. She had to be hiding something from him, but what? He finished the last bite of stew, then swallowed the pain pill laid out on the table for him.

His mobile chimed.

_I found a jumper like the dead woman’s. - Leah_

A smile slowly spread across Sherlock's face. Finally. A lead from his homeless network. A photograph followed. Lopsided Christmas trees and disjointed snowflakes littered the front of the maroon jumper. There was no mistaking the knitter’s poor hand.

_Where? -SH_

Another photo followed. Above a dingy window, faded black letters spelled out, "Army Veteran's Thrift Shop." Sherlock's elation disappeared. There was no way to trace the purchase as shops like this only dealt in coin. Even if the old woman had made the jumper herself and donated it, it was unlikely anyone who worked there would recall her name, especially considering the amount of foot traffic the place got. Another dead end.

Sherlock sighed. Useful or not, Leah had still found something. Opening an app, he transferred a sum to a bank card he'd given her.

_Ask if anyone recalls the old woman purchasing or donating a jumper like that. Show them the photograph from the crime scene. -SH_

It was a long shot, but perhaps the outright ugliness of the jumper would help the clerk recall some tiny tidbit of information about the dead woman. Sherlock shoved his mobile into his pocket and wandered into the living room. Gaze glued to the telly, John chuckled as a man in a bowler hat did a series of exaggerated spastic leg movements down a corridor.

“What is this drivel?”

John gaped at Sherlock like he’d just cursed his firstborn. “This is Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks. It’s a bloody classic. A national treasure.”

“It looks like drivel to me.”

“You heretic.” John jabbed a finger at the exit. “Go and boil your bottoms.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” Sherlock eyed him. “Have you been using Mrs. Hudson’s herbal soothers?”

John only grinned as if he found himself enormously amusing and propped his feet up on the coffee table. A grey scarf peeked out from behind the teapot.

"I thought you were going to return Vivian's scarf," Sherlock said.

"I tried, but the women at the front desk were completely incompetent. One could barely type and neither of them knew who Vivian was. When I described her, they had the nerve to tell me I had the wrong name. Can you believe that?" He shook his head in disgust, then resumed watching the show.

Icy unease crept up Sherlock's spine. He picked up the remote control and turned off the telly.

"Hey, I was watching that,” John protested, making a grab for it.

Sherlock threw the remote over his shoulder, and it clattered into the kitchen. "What name did they give you?"

“What?”

“When they said you had the wrong name, they must have given you another. What was it?”

"What does it matter?"

"It matters because one incompetent staff person at the front desk is believable, two is not, especially with an expanding company like Cubic Systems. Also, Vivian is new. While one of the women may have porridge for brains, the other couldn’t have possibly forgotten her already, nor associate her description with someone else. Nothing about Vivian is common." Sherlock had noticed Vivian the second she’d entered the conference room at Stryder & Chapel. And it hadn’t been because she’d been late or that she’d sat beside him or even her striking features. He’d never put any stock into metaphysical energy or auras, but in that moment a tiny part of him had understood why some people deluded themselves into believing in it. Vivian’s sheer presence had captured his attention like a crimson flare shot across a desolate sky. It was all he could do to stare at her phone and not at her profile. Disconcerted, he’d had to forcibly shove her out of his mind so he could focus on the Rebecca Frost case, but Vivian’s subsequent involvement had made that impossible. At any rate, a person would have to be either blind and dumb, or a corpse to fail to notice Vivian Walker.

For the first time, doubt flickered across John’s face. "The name they gave me was Miranda Blythe.”

Sherlock sat down at the desk and did a search for "Miranda Blythe and Cubic Systems" on John's laptop. The company directory popped up. It only listed a series of names and email addresses - no photographs. A search using Miranda’s email address returned nothing. He resorted to Facebook. Naturally, a lengthy list of profile photos came up for the name. He narrowed the search down to Kennington, the area where Vivian had said she'd found a flat. That reduced the list substantially. He scrolled once. Twice. Then a third time.

The air in his lungs turned to frost.

There she was.

Sherlock knew her as Vivian Walker, but her Facebook page said otherwise. Miranda Blythe. Female. 33. Executive assistant to Charles Wheeler, CEO of Cubic Systems. Single. Her profile photo showed her in a short black dress, smiling widely at the camera, some frothy alcoholic pink drink in her hand. Numerous photos cluttered her page. One showed her on a gondola ride in Venice, while another had her sipping a cappuccino in Paris. A poorly lit one had her squished in the middle of a large tipsy group at a pub. The last was a blurred motion shot of her dancing at a club, glitter on her skin. Messages from friends flooded her newsfeed. Some were clearly inside jokes. A number checked in asking about her new job. The ice in Sherlock's chest spread outward, freezing his breath, his blood, his bones.

Vivian had lied to him. To both of them. About everything.

"What the hell?" John murmured from over his shoulder. "Why is she calling herself Miranda?"

Sherlock's jaw was clenched so tight, he couldn't respond. Leaving John frowning at the computer, he marched into his bedroom and threw open his closet door. Where was it? He knew it was in here somewhere. He rifled past a priest's robe, a Royal Navy uniform, and a fireman coat. There. In the far corner, ID badge still attached. He changed his clothes, buttoning up the grey shirt, then pulling on the matching trousers and a scuffed pair of boots. He settled a ball cap on his head, making sure it covered his hair completely. When he walked back into the room, John did a double-take. "What are you wearing?"

Sherlock didn't answer, as it was blatantly obvious, and removed his keys from his coat where it hung on the hook near the door. He slipped them into his trouser pocket and turned to leave, but John blocked his path. "What are doing?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you're going to infiltrate Cubic Systems dressed as a ruddy fire alarm inspector."

"Excellent deduction. Are we done?" Impatience twisted at his insides. He should have gone out the bedroom window.

"No, we're not done.” The set of John’s jaw turned mulish. “There's bound to be a reasonable explanation for all this.”

A harsh laugh tore its way out of Sherlock's throat, leaving it raw and aching. “Oh John, you have far too much faith in people.”

"And you have far too little. You can't just go spying on Vivian at her work. That isn't fair."

"Fair?" Sherlock demanded. "She's lied to us repeatedly. My investigating her is merely balancing the scales. That's _fair_."

"Wrong. Fair would be giving her the benefit of the doubt and asking her about it."

"How can you possibly be this naive? Vivian has already proven herself incapable of telling the truth."

"Oh, that’s rich, Mr. I-Faked-My-Death-For-Three-Bloody-Years,” John exclaimed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course John would bring that up. “That was completely different. I had good reason for that.”

“Maybe Vivian has a good reason too. Or did that not occur to you?”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Sherlock said, stepping forward. “Now get out of my way.”

“No.” John widened his stance, planting his feet firmly against the carpet. “I don’t understand why you don’t just ask her. You spotted her lie before, you can do it again."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "That won't work."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't tell when she's lying," he snapped. "I already told you the only reason I caught her lie about the bruises was because of the missing freckles on her arms. I wouldn't have known otherwise."

John’s mouth fell open. "But you said everyone has a tell."

"They do, unless it's been trained out of them. Perhaps she learned the trick as part of her defense lessons." His voice hardened. "If she's been having them at all." The perfectly smooth lie she'd told John denying knowledge of the exploded pillow incident had set off alarm bells in Sherlock's head. If he hadn't already known what had occurred, he would have believed her innocent. The two lies, coupled with this latest discovery about her identity had him questioning everything she'd ever told him. "I need answers."

For a moment, an internal battle warred across John's face, but then he nodded. "Fine, but I'm coming with you."

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "I've only got one uniform." He stepped around John and opened the door.

"Sherlock, wait. Listen to me."

The pleading note in John's tone made Sherlock pause, but he didn't turn. "What?"

“Look, I know you’re upset. I am too. But please try to remember, Vivian isn’t our enemy. She’s our friend.”

 _Friend_.

The word reverberated against the ice in Sherlock’s chest causing it to shift and shudder and threaten to crack. His hand tightened convulsively on the doorknob. “I don’t know what she is.”

Silence reigned, then a weary sigh filled the flat. "Just promise me you won’t burn any bridges, alright?"

Sherlock continued forward without replying. He wasn't about to make such a promise. Vivian was the one who'd lit the match, not him.

Outside, the brisk air cut through his thin uniform. He welcomed the chill, encouraged it to feed the cold inside him. With every step, the ice in his chest expanded, sending a soothing numbness through his body. His clenched hands relaxed, his shoulders lowered, and his stride lengthened. All that was left was cool, icy purpose.

*******

Sherlock strode into Cubic Systems, gaze sweeping across the modern, muted decor. A news article he'd read on the cab ride over had labeled the company as one of London's rising stars. Cubic Systems provided innovative software solutions for businesses. Their most recent project was rumored to involve a new type of networking. Gossip on various forums theorized it was going to be a fusion of Twitter, Facebook, and crowd funding, allowing entrepreneurs to connect with the everyday Joe for investment opportunities.

"Welcome to Cubic Systems. How may I help you?" asked a perky brunette.

Sherlock pasted a smile onto his face, making sure to crinkle his eyes. He tapped the name badge clipped to the front of his shirt. "Scott Sigerson with a fire alarm inspection, Miss."

Commercial buildings like this one required weekly inspections. He'd have no trouble gaining access.

A small line formed between her brows. "I thought Danny came by yesterday. Is there a problem?"

"Nothing to worry about. Just a low backup battery that needs to be replaced. Danny didn't have any on hand when he was here and asked me to stop by since I was in the area."

Her expression cleared. "Oh, I see." She waved a hand at the lift behind her. "Go on up, then."

"Much obliged." He bobbed his head, then made his way to the lift. The first floor featured a gym and cafeteria. The second, third, and fourth contained human resources, sales, and marketing. The fifth and sixth were a veritable honeycomb of cubicles with workers busy writing code. As Vivian worked for the CEO, she'd be on the topmost floor where all the executive offices were located. The lift doors slid open, and he walked down a corridor. A few people passed him, but no one gave him a second glance. A man in a working uniform like his was essentially invisible within the corporate world. The solid wall on his left gave way to glass, revealing a crowded meeting room, except it was like none he’d ever seen. The two side walls were painted a bright yellow, and the third was completely taken up by a massive whiteboard. Businessmen and women sat perched atop large, bouncy exercise balls. Some were more precariously balanced than others.   

A blond man paced the length of the whiteboard, scribbling as he went. While everyone else was dressed in professional attire, he wore jeans and a simple blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Sherlock’s gaze dropped to the man’s feet. They were bare. Interesting. Only someone utterly brilliant at their job would be allowed to openly flout the company’s dress code. With his back still to the audience, he gave an emphatic beckoning gesture. Multiple voices sounded, indiscernible through the glass, and Sherlock realized the man was writing down what they were saying. He squinted at the messy scrawl across the top of the board. Stupid ideas? Why on earth would they have a meeting about stupid ideas? Wasn’t the whole point to skip over those? After the man finished the last line with a flourish, he spun around and grinned. Sherlock’s eyebrows twitched upward. This was Charles Wheeler, CEO of Cubic Systems.

The news article photograph had portrayed Charles as a well-dressed, collected, and serious businessman. At the moment, he was anything but. He bounced on the balls of his feet with barely contained enthusiasm, gesturing wildly with the uncapped marker. There was no need to wonder where the streak of black ink along his jawline had come from. Charles began to write again, but the marker died mid-word. He dropped it, turned, and held out a hand. A new marker sailed across the room, and he snatched it out of the air and beamed. That had been one hell of a throw. Sherlock traced the path of its trajectory, and his chest tightened so much, his sternum ached.

Of course it was her.

Red hair swept into a French twist. Perfect posture and pink cheeks. Vivian looked far more appealing than anyone sitting on a giant exercise ball had a right to. Although the glass walls were too thick for Sherlock to make out what she said, the murmur of her voice was easily identifiable. Charles threw his head back and laughed, and a chorus of amusement followed.

Sherlock’s fists clenched at the sight of her smiling face. She’d lied to him this whole time, and yet there she sat, pleased as punch, acting like everything was normal. Unable to bear looking at her a moment longer, he continued down the hall. At least one benefit of the meeting was that all the offices were empty. He peeked into a number of them, only stopping when he found one whose computer monitor had photographs taped to its edges. Perfect. Closing the door behind him, he noted the single security camera located in the upper corner near the fire alarm detector. He pulled out a chair and stood on it to reach the fire alarm and made a show of testing it, keeping the brim of his hat down low. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a small aerosol bottle. The label on the outside made it appear to be canned smoke, used for testing fire alarm equipment. What it really contained was a mist that put a thin, blurry film over glass surfaces. He sprayed the air around the fire alarm detector, making certain the cloud reached the security camera lens. He jumped down and moved to the computer. The amount of time he had was dependent upon how vigilant their security team was. The fuzzy footage might not be noticed for hours, but he wasn't about to count on that. He woke up the computer. It belonged to one Agnes O'Connor, an older woman, married, with three grandchildren, and a peculiar obsession with giraffes. A number of the animal figurines cluttered her desk.

Cubic Systems had its employees change their passwords on a frequent basis. Older generations tended to go mad over trying to keep them all straight. Sherlock flipped over the photographs taped to the edges of the monitor. Ah, yes. And Agnes O'Connor simply hated changing hers. She'd written them down in tiny print on the back of the photographs decorating her computer. So very predictable. Sherlock entered the latest one, and he was in. After that, accessing the company's employee files was simple. Records showed that Miranda Blythe had interviewed at Cubic Systems three weeks ago, and had begun work a week later. Her address was listed near Kennington Park. Her resume indicated she'd gone to university for business administration, worked with various companies in Europe, and excelled as an executive assistant. There were four glowing letters of recommendation.

Sherlock sat back. He wasn't any closer to the truth. Somehow, he'd thought he'd find something concrete and irrefutable here, but now he realized his best bet was to search Vivian’s flat. At least he had her address now. Recognizing his time was limited, he stood and made sure everything was back in order. Just as he grabbed the chair from the middle of the room to return it to its original position, the office door swung open.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Agnes’ hand flew to her ample bosom.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Sherlock said as he slid the chair back into place. "I was just checking the fire alarm in your office."

"Everything all right, Agnes?" a voice asked from the hallway.

Sherlock's jaw clenched. Of course it was Vivan. No matter. He'd fooled John while in disguise before. Deceiving Vivian would be simple.

A cheerful laugh. "M'fine, love. The fire inspector just gave me a fright s'all," Agnes said, stepping fully inside.

"My apologies," Sherlock softened his voice and ducked his head in bashful contrition right as Vivian appeared. He let the can of fake smoke slip from his fingers. It bounced across the floor, and he scurried forward to pick it up, deliberately fumbling it a few times. He finally grasped it, then half-straightened. "I'd best go finish up the rest. I need to replace a battery in the panel." After offering a timid head-bob to them both, he slipped past Vivian and headed down the hall. His satisfaction grew with every step. There was no way Vivian could have recognized him. Expectation shaped perception. That’s why most people failed to recognize a co-worker outside of the office. The human brain was lazy and did as little work as possible. As a result, it took the easy path of assumptions and ignored any tiny niggling thoughts that might disrupt its happy lassitude. But even if that weren’t the case, Sherlock was a master of disguise, an expert at subterfuge.

It was more than just the uniform and hat. He'd altered the pitch and cadence of his speech, his mannerisms and posture. Walking unrecognized amongst those who knew him was an acquired skill, one he'd honed to perfection. It didn't matter that Vivian had looked right at him. Like everyone else, she’d seen only what he'd wanted her to see: a painfully shy, rather bumbling man just trying to do his job. Now, he just needed to get out of here. If he hurried, he could search her flat before she left for home. He took a right at the end of the corridor.

A voice called after him, "Wait."

Vivian. Again. This time, he wasn’t even surprised.

Sherlock’s fingers tightened around the can of smoke. He turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Vivian smiled and pointed to the left. "The panel's that way."

"Is it?" He rubbed the back of his neck in feigned embarrassment, then gave a helpless shrug. "I'm afraid I'm rather rubbish at directions."

A short laugh. "In all fairness, it is a bit of a maze in here. Come on, I'll show you where it is."

It appeared he’d gone and overdone the bumbling part. "I'd hate to be any trouble, Miss. I'm sure I can find it now."

"Oh, it's no trouble. It's good to have a walk after my meeting."

"Long one, was it?" he asked, falling into step beside her. There was no harm in fishing for information while he had the opportunity. He sneaked a glance at Vivian, but there was no suspicion in her expression. Only kindness and warmth. He tightened his jaw and reminded himself why he was here. She'd lied. He repeated it like a mantra in his head.

Vivian chuckled. "They usually are, but thankfully they’re never boring."

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard that said about meetings before,” he said, injecting surprise into his tone.

“Yes, well. You haven’t met my boss. I think he’s a bit mad, honestly.”

“Aren’t all bosses like that?” He lowered his voice as if sharing a secret. “I’m not sure mine’s even human.”

Another laugh. “I expect you’re right,” Vivian said with a grin. “They must all be cracked.”

“At least tomorrow's Friday." Sherlock had learned that every worker bee anticipated the day's arrival like children did Christmas.

"Yes, there’s that," she said. They took another left, then a right. If he'd really been looking for the fire alarm panel, he would have needed to consult a map. "Do you have any exciting plans, Mister...?"

"Sigerson. Scott Sigerson."

"Miranda Blythe."

They shook hands sideways as they walked. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Sherlock. Here he was pretending to be someone else in order to investigate Vivian who was also pretending to be someone else. Although, he wasn't sure which identity of hers was the lie. Perhaps they both were. "Nothing exciting for me. Just a quiet night in with the telly. You?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm having dinner with someone at The Five Fields," she said, dimples forming around her mouth. "It's this posh new restaurant in London. The food's supposed to be incredible."

A spark of humor flared in Sherlock's chest. She'd barely mentioned Victor at all. It was clear she was drawn more to the food than the man. "Sounds like quite the date."

"Oh, I don't know about that." Her gaze went distant for a moment, mouth quirking. "I suppose I'll have to wait and see."

The flicker of amusement died.

She stopped in front of a narrow door at the end of the hall and opened it. "Right. Here we are."

The room was tiny, little more than a closet. A shelf filled with office supplies stood crammed against the back wall. To the left was the fire alarm panel, and opposite it, a ladder on a hook. A whirring hum came from an oscillating fan balanced on the top shelf. Without an air conditioning vent in the ceiling, all it did was circulate the warm, stuffy air of the enclosed space. Sherlock squeezed inside and forced a grateful smile onto his face. "I doubt I would have made it here without your help."

She shook her head. "I’m sure you would have found it eventually. When you're done here, go back down the hall. When it splits, make a left. There's an exit to the stairwell there. Easier than finding the lift."

"Thanks very much."

"My pleasure,” she said with a smile and turned away. She took two steps forward, then stopped. Her head whipped around, and green eyes searched his, confusion in her gaze. Chin lifting, her nose probed the air like an English foxhound scenting its prey.

The warm air from the fan brushed across the exposed skin above Sherlock's collar, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. He hadn't taken a shower after his long day in the morgue. The cloying scent from the chemical disinfectant no doubt still clung to his skin. If he'd been in an open, ventilated space, it wouldn't have been noticeable. But he wasn't in one at the moment. No, he was in a warm, tiny box with a fan blowing across him.

Vivian eyes went wide, and the warmth drained from her face.

Sherlock's brain didn't bother with the Latin version this time.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, do you still love me?


	13. Chapter 13

Vivian advanced on him, green eyes blazing. "Take off the hat."

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock feigned innocence in one last ditch effort to throw her off.

It didn't work.

Lips compressed, Vivian shoved her way into the tiny closet, squeezing between him and the fire alarm panel, and pulled the door shut. There was hardly enough room for one person, let alone two, and she trod on his feet until he widened his stance to make room for her. Behind him, the metal ladder dug into his back.

"Take off the hat," she repeated. Cold fury coated each word.

Sherlock pretended to consider the demand. "Hmmm...no. I don't think I will." Like he'd just let her order him about. He matched her glare with one of his own.

The air grew thick and charged between them like right before an electrical storm. Sherlock's pulse began to pound, echoing in his temples, but for once there wasn't pain. Vivian let out an angry hiss. Her arm snaked up, and she ripped the hat off, looking like she wanted to tear his head off with it.

His hair tumbled loose, and her expression grew even more livid. "You bastard. What the hell are you playing at?"

A wave of anger rolled through him at her nerve. "You're one to talk, _Miranda_."

Rosy color suffused Vivian's cheeks, and her eyes turned to slits. If she'd been ill earlier at lunch, there was no sign of it now. Of course, that could have been another one of her lies. He leaned forward, away from the ladder's sharp angles. The movement had him looming over her, but she didn't appear the least bit intimidated.

Her chin lifted, nose nearly knocking into his. "Why are you here?"

Did she really need him to spell it out for her? His lip curled. "John came by to drop off the scarf you left at the morgue. Imagine his surprise when he discovered there was no one here by that name. The only person who fit your description was Miranda Blythe."

"So?"

His jaw clenched. She was being deliberately obtuse. "You're lying about your identity," he said, voice low and accusing.

"Of course I am, you numpty."

Sherlock stared. He'd expected her to concoct some elaborate lie, not agree and then insult him.

"Do you honestly think I just waltz into a company and tell them the truth?" A saccharine smile twisted her mouth. "Yes, hello everyone. My name is Vivian Walker, and I'm here to assess your productivity, after which I'll decide if you'll retain your job. Don't mind me."

Understanding crashed over Sherlock like an icy wave. Miranda Blythe was an alias given to Vivian by the consulting company she worked for. It allowed her to safely gather information from her coworkers who remained blissfully unaware they were being assessed. He frowned down at her. "You're a corporate spy."

An eye roll. "I'm more like a secret shopper working from the inside."

That sounded like a corporate spy to him. Sherlock's mind flashed back to Charles Wheeler. "Does the CEO know?"

"No one knows. I was hired by Cubic's investors to assess the health of the company and to determine whether their funds are being used wisely."

"And your Facebook page?"

The scowl on her face deepened. "It's fake. Every photo. Every friend. Every post. All created by the company who handles my contracts."

That made sense. Employers nowadays scoured the internet for information on potential employees. Her social media presence would satisfy the curiosity of her fellow coworkers and add greater verisimilitude to her cover story.

"Are you done, or would you like to interrogate me further?" she snapped.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. John had been right for once. There really was a reasonable explanation. Perhaps he'd been a bit hasty storming over here.

"Fine. It's my turn." She smacked him in the chest with his hat, but the limited space made it ineffectual. "What in the hell were you thinking coming here?"

The wisp of contrition vanished. "My job."

"Your job?" Her voice rose in pitch. "I'm not one of your cases, Sherlock."

"Well, you're certainly acting like one. You hid your injuries and lied about them. And today I discover you're going by another name and leading a double life." He scoffed. "Of course I came here. What did you expect?"

"I expected you to ring me up like a normal person, not invade my privacy and jeopardize my work."

"Oh please. I'm not jeopardizing your work. No one recognized me."

"I did!"

She had. And it irked him to no end. He scowled at her. "Only because I smelled like the morgue."

A finger jabbed at his sternum. "You made a mistake. One of many. Now, listen to me very carefully. You might have saved my life, but that doesn't give you the right to invade it. I--" Her eyes widened. "Someone's coming."

Sherlock couldn't hear anything, but he didn't doubt Vivian’s sensitive ears. Her gaze swept the tiny room as if in search of an alternate exit or place to hide, but he already knew there were none. Mind racing, he quickly sifted through their limited options. Only one had an actual chance of working. Steeling himself, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

The hat slipped from her grasp, and her palms shoved hard against his chest. "What are you--"

" _Think_. There's only one believable reason why two people would be in here," he said, tightening his hold.

She frowned, then understanding dawned on her face. "Oh."

"Yes, 'Oh.’” With his other hand, he cradled the back of her neck. "Now this needs to appear reciprocal, so do try and keep up."

The calculated taunt spurred Vivian into action. One hand gripped the front of his uniform in a tight hold, while the other slid up the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair. A shiver sparked down his spine at the contact, but this was no time to get distracted. He could hear footsteps now.

Vivian pulled his head down, and the smooth skin of her cheek glided along his. Warm breath teased his ear. "It's not me you should be worried about, _Scott_."

A spike of adrenaline surged through Sherlock, and his pulse raced impossibly faster. He'd only intended to goad Vivian just enough to get her to cooperate, but he realized now he may have pushed her too far, especially considering how furious she already was with him. If the door didn't open within the next thirty seconds, she would be certain to call his bluff. Despite his bold words, this really wasn't his area. The footsteps stopped just outside the door, and a faint murmur of conversation could be heard above the hum of the oscillating fan. Vivian's hand tightened in his hair. Sherlock's heart stuttered. She was going to do something. He braced himself, but nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

Lips - harsh, wet, and hot descended on the skin just below his ear, followed by the faintest hint of teeth. The searing touch of her mouth burned into him like a brand, sending molten heat through his veins. From somewhere deep inside him, an answering fire roared to life. Sherlock's breath caught and held. His vision tunneled. The world dimmed.

All he could see, all he could feel, was Vivian.

Grey spots formed in front of his eyes as she forged a path along his jaw. His head buzzed like it was about to float away. He sucked in a ragged breath. She paused, and he bit back a curse. He might as well have held up a neon sign above his head announcing, "Yes, you're affecting me." He hadn't thought he could be affected, not like this. Never like this.

The onslaught resumed, but its execution changed. Vivian's mouth softened and slowed. Oh God. That was almost worse. Every nerve ending twanged in response to each gentle brush of her lips. He squeezed his eyes shut, scrambling for a way to regain the upper hand, but he couldn't think. Sensation sent his thoughts whirling away like so much vapor. His body had hijacked his brain. All he could do was feel, feel, feel.

Vivian's head shifted, angle changing, trajectory altered. There was little doubt in his mind of her destination. But her lips halted just as they grazed the edge of his own. His pulse tripped over itself.

"Do try and keep up," she murmured.

His stomach swooped as if he were standing at the edge of a precipice. "Vivian." Her name came out a strained whisper, the sound foreign to his ears. When she failed to move, he opened his eyes.

Lowered ginger lashes hid her gaze from view. The side of her nose bumped lightly against his, and red lips hovered just out of reach. Her warm exhalation met and mingled with his own, and they shared a breath. Once. Twice. Her gaze rose to meet his, and the ground opened up beneath Sherlock's feet. Black almost completely eclipsed the vibrant green of her eyes. Only a thin band of color remained.

_Oh_. She was just as affected by him as he was by her.

The revelation sent him reeling.

The knob twisted, and the closet door opened. Sherlock flinched in unfeigned shock and felt Vivian do the same. He'd completely forgotten about their expected visitor. A woman with spiky blonde hair and a nose piercing gaped at them. The mobile phone pressed to her ear fell to the floor with a clatter.

"Ol-Olivia," Vivian stuttered. While the color had been high in her cheeks before, now they positively glowed.

Realizing he still had her hauled up against him like they were posing for the cover of some rubbish romance novel, Sherlock released her waist and extracted his hand from her hair. Her French twist had come loose. Had he done that?

Olivia bent down and picked up her mobile, and a slow, gleeful smile spread across her face. "Sorry to interrupt," she said, looking like she meant the opposite. "I just needed a box of paperclips."

"Oh right. Of course. I'll just, um, grab one for you then." Vivian turned as much as the small space allowed and searched through the shelf. The deep red of her lipstick was smeared and missing in places. Sherlock had a very good idea where it had gone, as both his jaw and the edge of his mouth still tingled. Locating the box, she picked it up, and handed it over.

Olivia's smile widened until she resembled a Cheshire cat who'd gotten both the cream and the canary. "You've been holding out on me. I didn't know you had a _boyfriend_." The last word was uttered in a teasing, sing-song tone.

It took Sherlock a minute before he realized she was referring to him. His thoughts were thick and viscous as if honey clogged the gears of his mind.

Vivian cleared her throat. "Yes, well. It's all a bit...new. This is Scott, by the way."

Olivia wiggled her fingers at him. "Hello, Scott."

Sherlock managed a stiff nod.

"He, um, thought he'd surprise me at work," Vivian said.

Olivia eyed him up and down and gave a hum of approval. "It looks like you surprised him back, love."

"I have to go," Sherlock blurted out. He couldn't think. Not with Vivian still squeezed beside him and radiating heat. "I have to go," he repeated. He exited the closet, shouldered past Olivia, then hurried down the hallway. A blur of corridors and stairs later, he found himself outside Cubic Systems, chest tight and short of breath. He kept walking.

It took six blocks before the tingling on his skin receded, but it did nothing for the agitated thoughts buzzing in his head. What if they hadn't been interrupted? Would Vivian have closed the final gap between them? Would he have let her?

He wet his lips. Vanilla, smooth and sweet, blossomed on his tongue. Vivian's lipstick. It was still there on the edge of his mouth. Of course it would be flavored. The woman was a hedonist. Everything had to taste good, including her own mouth. His pulse pounded harder at the thought. Muttering a curse, he entered the nearest restaurant and headed into the washroom. Sherlock turned the deadbolt, barring anyone else from entry, then approached the small mirror to assess the damage. Five and a half near perfect lip-prints marked the side of his jaw, leading up to his mouth. He'd solved a murder using a lip print once. They were as unique as fingerprints and just as damning. He'd never expected one to be left on his skin though. Wetting a paper towel, he began to scrub away at the evidence, but it was just as reluctant to leave as the lingering effects of Vivian’s touch. By the time he finished, his jaw was red from rubbing at it. He splashed cold water against his heated face and exhaled.

He'd never had the desire to explore someone's mouth with his own, nor have someone do the same to him, but there was no denying his reaction to her. A detached part of his mind had carefully cataloged his every physical response and now mocked him with a scathing report: pulse elevated, respiration increased, circulation _diverted_. The last set his fists clenching. He'd always been above all that nonsense. This was far worse than whatever fleeting awareness he'd had of Irene Adler all those years ago. Today, his own body had betrayed him, had turned his logic-driven brain into so much mush.

Sherlock left the loo and continued walking. Biology. That's all this was. Any red-blooded male forced into such close proximity with an attractive woman would have reacted the same way. So what if it had never happened to him before? It wasn't as if he'd been alone in his reaction. Vivian had responded too. And he was certain now it was just as involuntary and unwanted as his own. Despite her dilated pupils, there'd been little doubt of her intent. He'd goaded her, and she'd retaliated. It was as simple as that. It didn't mean anything. It didn't matter. And it certainly wasn't going to happen again.

*******

The hot spray from the shower scoured away the remnants of the morgue left on Sherlock's skin and the remaining tension in his body. After arriving back at 221B, he'd given John a slightly edited version of his encounter with Vivian. John had been visibly relieved to hear there had been a reasonable, if not unusual, explanation for Vivian's dual identity. Before John could say, "I told you so," Mrs. Hudson had called, requesting help with a few burnt out bulbs in 221C, and John had left to oblige her. While the basement flat had never had a tenant, she still insisted on maintaining it. Sherlock didn't know why she bothered. No one wanted to live down there in the damp, musty place. He'd used the empty space for an experiment once, but the lack of ventilation had proved problematic. Feeling more like himself and content to be headache free for the first time in a while, Sherlock toweled off and returned to his room to dress. Right as he finished pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, the door to his bedroom opened. A rush of cool air hit the bare skin of his back, sending goose flesh down his spine.

"Ever hear of knocking? You lift your-" The cutting remark died on Sherlock's lips as he turned. It wasn't John who'd so rudely invaded his room.

It was Vivian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you love me now? :-)


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock stared. Vivian was in his bedroom. The goose bumps multiplied, spreading a shivering path down his bare chest and abdomen. “What are you doing here?"

One brow quirked. "Oh, I'm sorry. Should I have let you know I was coming?" The acid in her tone could have descaled a steel beam.

So. Still hacked off about earlier then. He couldn't understand why. Surely, she comprehended his reasons for investigating her.

Stepping fully into the room, Vivian tossed his ball cap onto the bed. Sherlock vaguely recalled her dropping it when he'd pulled her to him in the electrical closet. It had slipped his mind until now. Something told him she hadn't come here just to return his hat though. Her French twist was back in place, lipstick repaired. Smooth and perfect, the red hue followed the cupid's bow of her mouth and along her full lower lip. Any trace of what had happened in the closet was gone. Realizing he was staring at her mouth, Sherlock snapped his gaze back up to hers. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

He was immediately wary. John had often moaned about hearing those four dreaded words from women over the years. The statement had never preceded anything good. "And what, you couldn't wait until I was dressed?"

"Nope," she said, aggressively popping the 'p.' "I really couldn't."

This was the fourth time he'd been less than fully clothed in her presence. The first had been when she'd accidentally barged into his room at _Aria_. The second was following their muddy brawl when she'd bandaged his bruised ribs. And the third instance was when he'd given her his shirt at the Victorian pool house. This time, however, if she'd arrived but a minute earlier, she would have gotten more than an eyeful of his chest. The thought left him feeling more than a little exposed. He reached for his shirt on the dresser, and her gaze blatantly raked over him.

"Don't worry. You have nothing that interests me."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. She was parroting back at him what he'd once said to her at _Brackenwood_. If not for her reaction to him earlier today, he would have believed her indifference. Even now, he couldn't detect the lie. But what he couldn't understand was why she expected him to believe her. Realization dawned, and he set his shirt back down. She had no idea her eyes had betrayed her in the electrical closet. Sherlock barely repressed a chuckle. Oh yes. This was going to be _fun_.

He invaded her space like she'd invaded his room, and as expected, she didn't back down. Backing down was a physical impossibility for Vivian Walker, and it was a weakness he fully intended to exploit. He stopped just short of touching her. Her smirk faded, replaced by a frown. Expression calm, gaze steady, he merely watched her and waited. A minute passed. Her frown remained, but something flashed across her face. Uncertainty. Good.

Jasmine, sweet and heady, filled his nose. He'd noticed her perfume in the electrical closet, of course, but his awareness of it had quickly faded once she'd begun to exact her revenge. His sense of touch had predominated then, drowning out everything else. With the memory came a flicker of heat. Clenching his jaw, he did his best to extinguish it and refocused. He was supposed to be teaching Vivian a lesson, not reliving her retribution. Bending his head, he deliberately let his eyes drop to her mouth, pause there for a moment, then slowly move back up.

There. The black circles of her pupils expanded.

He smirked. "Liar. Your pupils just dilated. It's involuntary and very telling. It means I do in fact have _something_ that interests you."

Vivian's mouth fell open. "What? No. That's not...I-I... " She sputtered a bit more, then pressed her lips together, cutting off the incoherent stream.

His smirk widened at her flustered state. Served her right for trying to lie to him again. Just as he was about to draw back, her gaze unexpectedly moved south, zeroing in on his neck. Sherlock went still. Was there a spider on him? While he had no fear of the creatures, he preferred them outside rather than on his person. That's when he felt it. A drop of water from his still wet hair was sliding ever so slowly over his skin. It slipped out of the hollow just below his throat and made its way down his sternum. Vivian's eyes followed its path, the weight of her scrutiny a prickling warmth. Her hand rose -- reached out. Every muscle in Sherlock’s body tensed. Every nerve vibrated in anticipation. Every cell held its breath. Her palm floated there, a whisper away from his chest, radiating heat like a glowing ember. Sparks danced across his skin. She wasn’t even touching him. One minuscule movement on his part though, a slight inhalation, and she'd make contact. Would the water droplet sizzle if she did? Or would the blazing heat of her combine with his own and turn him to ash? The rekindled flame inside Sherlock wanted to find out.

He swallowed. The small, involuntary movement startled Vivian, and her hand jerked back to her side. The fire hissed in frustration.

Green eyes flew up to meet his. For the first time, it was easy for Sherlock to decipher the rapid-fire emotions flickering across her face. They were all an echo of his own.

Embarrassment. Confusion. Disquiet. And something else. Was that surprise?

Her gaze searched his for a moment, brows drawing together as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "It appears I'm not the only one," she murmured.

Sherlock stared at her. The quiet statement made no sense. What did she- Sudden comprehension set his heart pounding. His own wretched pupils must have dilated just now. Vivian may have fallen into his trap, but he'd ensnared himself in the process. _Idiot_. Now they were both aware of this mutual, albeit involuntary, interest between them. He took a step back.

"Running away again?" she asked, expression shuttering.

He barely managed to stop himself from retreating another step. "I've never run away in my life."

A humorless chuckle. "Who's lying now? Olivia and I both watched you flee down the hall like the building was on fire. A bit ironic, considering your disguise."

"I had far better things to do than make small talk with your nosy coworker."

"Like leaving me to deal with the fallout? I had to make excuses for you."

"So? I'm sure you had no trouble making something up. You lie for a living."

“Don't you dare insult my work.” Vivian’s hands clenched into fists. The vehemence of her reaction startled him.

"Is everything alright?" John appeared in the doorway. His brown eyes went wide.

Sherlock realized he was still half-naked and standing far too close to Vivian.

Vivian glared over her shoulder at John. "No, it's not alright," she snapped.

John's eyebrows shot up. "Right. I'll, um, just go make tea then. And let you two..." He waved an inarticulate hand at them and retreated.

Sherlock used the opportunity the interruption had given him to pull his t-shirt on, then darted around Vivian and into the living room. Their conversation didn't need to be held in his bedroom of all places. She followed after him, and he sat down in his leather chair. "What exactly is the problem?"

Vivian took John's chair, spine taut as a bowstring, and scowled. "The problem is Olivia Brannagh. She’s the biggest gossip at Cubic Systems. The woman has her own bloody messaging network. Within the next hour, everyone in the building will have heard about what happened."

"So?"

Her lips compressed, and he wondered why her lipstick didn't smudge. It certainly had adhered to his skin easily enough. "My cover isn't supposed to have a boyfriend, Sherlock."

"I wasn't the one who agreed with Olivia’s assumption."

"Oh, come on. I _had_ to.”

"Why?" he asked, bewildered.

"Because Miranda Blythe isn't some slag who hauls strange men into electrical closets for a snog!"

Metal clattered against what sounded like the sugar bowl. John gaped over at them from the kitchen. Lovely. Just wonderful. Now Sherlock had an interrogation to look forward to later.

Footsteps soft and cautious, John approached Vivian like one would an enraged goddess, peace offering in hand. Face softening, she accepted the steaming cuppa and gave him a strained smile. "Thanks, John." Her attention returned to Sherlock. “There’s quite enough going on at work right now. I wasn't expecting to have to change my cover story."

"Then don't."

Her eyes closed. "I'm afraid that's not an option." They snapped open again, and determination hardened her jaw. "You've already involved yourself in the narrative. And now you're required to participate."

"Participate?" Sherlock reflexively accepted the other cup from John.

"Yes." She blew a breath across her tea, then took a sip. "Congratulations. You're Miranda Blythe's new boyfriend."

He was _what_?

Complete silence reigned in the flat for a long moment, then John burst into incredulous laughter. Sherlock joined in, for once in complete agreement with him. But Vivian wasn't laughing.

John's amusement died away. "Hang on. You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm very serious." Vivian’s gaze never left Sherlock. "You're going to make a Facebook page for Scott Sigerson. My employer will add a fake group of friends to yours, but developing Scott’s profile and creating believable posts for him will be up to you."

John pointed at Sherlock. "You want _him_ to pretend to be your boyfriend? Sherlock Holmes." A giggle slipped out, just this side of hysterical. "That's completely mad, Vivian. He'll cock up the very first Facebook post. Maybe I should do it instead."

Sherlock shot John a withering look. “Oh yes. I’m sure your poetry would delight her.”

“It’d be a sight better than your latest tobacco ash experiment."

The stiff line of Vivian’s spine broke. She leaned forward. “I need this done and done right. It will only last a month, two at most. Just long enough to avoid the scrutiny that would come from a one-time fling. After that, we’ll break up.” Her mouth quirked. “It’s not me; it’s you.”

A snicker sounded from John, although Sherlock wasn’t sure what was so amusing.

“Until then, you’ll play the doting boyfriend and do nothing to jeopardize my cover,” Vivian said. “We'll need to take photos together periodically to help corroborate the story." She fell silent then and waited for his response. While her expression appeared calm, a peculiar tension emanated from her. Something about it was familiar, almost like looking in a mirror.

Recognition dropped like a stone into his mind, sending ripples of understanding through him. He knew this tension, this clawing drive. It echoed his own. The Work. It was everything. He thrived on it, on the danger, on the challenge, on the terrible beauty of it all. Like the ouroboros, the serpent eating its own tail, The Work fed on him and he on it in an endless, self-perpetuating cycle. Back at _Brackenwood,_ Vivian had said her work was her life, but he hadn’t really believed her. The fierce glint of dedication in her gaze, so like his own, told him he’d been wrong. The blistering heat of her anger made sense now. As did the barely contained tension simmering beneath her skin. Despite the tea, his mouth felt dry. If someone had interfered with his Work, he would have flown into a rage, compelled to protect everything he was, all that gave him purpose. Sherlock realized now he’d made a grave error. He’d dismissed Vivian’s protests over his intrusion, ignored her complaints. Even though their fields were vastly different, in disrespecting her work, work she was equally as committed to, he’d offered insult to his own, and thus diminished himself. Heat crept up the back of his neck. For the first time, he felt small. Embarrassed. Like a child who’d confidently answered a basic maths problem, only to find out it was incorrect. He disliked the sensation. At least he still had a chance to make up for it.

Sherlock slowly nodded. "You have my cooperation."

Out of his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw John's jaw unhinge. Annoyance flashed through him. He wasn't completely unreasonable.

The tension ebbed from Vivian, and a smile appeared on her face, as bright and as welcome as the first ray of sunshine after a storm. It was the first genuine one he'd received from her today, at least one that was actually intended for him and not Scott Sigerson.

"Thank you," she said.

The warmth on Sherlock’s neck increased. She really shouldn’t be thanking him, but he nodded anyway. John still looked gobsmacked by his agreement.

Vivian reached into her handbag. "There's more, I'm afraid." She opened a cream colored envelope and removed a rectangular gold slip of shining paper. Clearly a ticket of some kind. She handed it to him. "Next month there's a charity event being hosted by Cubic System’s top floor executives. Fancy dinner, posh dress, a bit of dancing. I'm required to attend and bring a date."

John had recovered now and was grinning like his favorite Jammie Dodgers had gone on sale.

"I take it Scott Sigerson will be your plus one?" Sherlock said, running a finger over the embossed lettering. The dinner and dancing wouldn't be unbearable. It was the people that would be the problem. People were always the problem.

"You’re catching on already,” Vivian said, tone teasing. "It wouldn't do for Miranda to show up without her boyfriend, now would it?” She stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. "I’ve got some more work to do, but I'll need your profile completed by ten o’clock. Let me know when it's finished."

"Understood.”

John picked up the grey scarf where it still sat on the coffee table and offered it to her, expression apologetic. "I'm sorry. If I'd just kept it, none of this-"

"This isn't your fault, John," she said, squeezing his arm. “Don’t worry about it. It’s all been sorted.” She gave them both a wave and left.

Sherlock took a sip of his lukewarm tea and began to build a mental backstory for Scott Sigerson.

Glorious silence reigned for two minutes and thirty-seven seconds before John released a low chuckle. “Someone had a busy day.”

“Oh?” Sherlock continued fleshing out the man’s background.

“Three hours ago, you were hacked off and single. And now you’ve got yourself a girlfriend.” Another snicker. “I think even Victor Trevor would be impressed.”

Some dark, nameless thing inside Sherlock stirred from slumber at the man’s name. "Doubtful, considering he’s taking Vivian out to dinner tomorrow evening.”

“He’s what?”

Judging by the shocked expression on John’s face, Sherlock must have failed to mention Victor’s visit to the lab. He quickly filled him in.

John shook his head. “That’s rotten luck. Not even twenty-four hours in and your new girlfriend’s already cheating on you.”

The dark creature within Sherlock bared its teeth at the idea. Sherlock tried to send it back to sleep, but it resisted, writhing at his insides. “You mean my new fake girlfriend.” The shape of the words felt strange as they rolled off his tongue.

“Fake or not, this is the closest thing to a relationship you’ve ever had.” A pause. “It's more than I ever thought you’d have, actually.”

"As scintillating as this conversation is, I've got work to do and a limited amount of time to do it. So do us both a favor and shut up.”

“Oh no. You’re not doing this alone.” John picked up his laptop and settled into his chair. “Vivian said she wanted this done right, remember? And like it or not, you need my help.”

As much as it pained him, he knew John was right. Of the two of them, John had more experience in this area. Sherlock would be stupid to refuse his assistance. “Fine.”

A delighted grin. "Right. Let's get your profile set up."

Two hours and a great deal of arguing later, Scott Sigerson had a very thorough Facebook profile. Sherlock included a few photographs, touching them up so they were more in keeping with Scott’s image. Once again, he did a search for Miranda Blythe, but this time he friended her. He’d never friended anyone in his life. Two minutes later his request was accepted.

A chime from his mobile.

_Not bad. -VW_

Another minute.

_You had him join a Cheeky Nando’s group? Seriously? -VW_

_That was John's doing -SH_

Sherlock didn’t understand why a Portuguese-Mozambican chain restaurant known for its chicken had such a rabid following, but John insisted on it, saying all the working-class lads were mad about it.

_I suppose it makes sense. But just so we’re clear, we’re never eating there. -VW_

His eyebrows rose. _I was under the impression you liked all food. -SH_

_;-) I’m full of surprises. -VW_

She certainly was, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

A notification popped up on Scott’s Facebook page.

_Miranda Blythe has indicated she is in a relationship with you. Please confirm or deny._

Sherlock’s heart lurched. The gravity of the situation hadn’t properly sank in until now. He felt set adrift, lost like a sea captain on a starless night. There wasn’t a scientific formula for this - no road map. Every step he took now was a blind one, the path before him dark and unknown. A tiny thrill coursed through him. Only one thing was certain: this wouldn’t be boring.

He clicked confirm.

A new event appeared on his news feed, announcing their relationship to the digital world. It even included a heart. He closed the laptop with a snap and stood.

"All finished?" John asked around a mouthful of stew.

"Yes." Sherlock headed for his room. Maybe if he hurried, John would be distracted by his meal and leave him alone.

“Hang on. I want to talk to you.” John followed after him, bowl in hand.

Of course -- he’d been far too optimistic.

Sherlock blocked John from entering his bedroom. He’d had enough people invading his privacy today. “What?”

“Did you snog Vivian in the electrical closet?”

Sherlock sighed, unsurprised by the question. “No.”

John didn’t look surprised by the answer, but then his eyes narrowed. "Did she snog you?"

“Again, no.” A very small, very irrational part of Sherlock wanted to add, “But she almost did.” John’s reaction alone would have been worth it, but the avalanche of questions that would follow kept him silent. "While I'd love to stay up and chat, I promised you six hours of unbroken sleep. Good night." He went to close the door, but John’s foot blocked it at the last second.

A cheeky grin. “Did you want her to?”

Sherlock kicked John’s foot out of the way and slammed the door in his face. Unrepentant laughter carried through it. After John’s footsteps faded away, Sherlock locked it, then shoved a chair beneath the knob. Better safe than sorry. Then true to his word, he got ready for bed and lay down.

Hours later, unable to sleep, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. The occasional car hummed past, a soothing harmony to the rain pattering against his window. Weariness hung like a cloud over him, seeping into his bones. He needed rest, actually wanted the mindless quiet it would bring him for once, but it eluded him. Buried deep inside him, an answer chafed like a granule of sand in the bed sheets. He’d locked it away the second it had appeared, but it had escaped again and again. It took all his energy to keep it at bay, but the more he fought it, the stronger it grew. The pressure was nearly unbearable now. At this point, he couldn’t see how letting it go would cause any more damage.

So, he set it free. It slowly rose to the surface and blanketed him in warmth.

Sherlock sighed, closed his eyes, then whispered the answer to John’s final question into the darkness. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think, my dear readers? Am I forgiven for those two cliff-hangers?


	15. Chapter 15

A little girl was missing.

John sat in the cab, silently cursing the Friday evening rush hour traffic. Like usual, Sherlock sat unperturbed beside him; however, when John eyed him more closely, he noted a grimmer set to his jaw than normal. Sherlock had come a long way since their first case of kidnapped children. He no longer smiled during them. John wished he would now, would have welcomed the casual arrogance, the reassurance that everything would be alright. Raindrops pelted the window. John kept count as they hit, drumming his fingers to the rhythm. The distraction didn’t work. Against his will, his mind was irresistibly drawn back to their most recent kidnapping case.

_Two Years Ago_

Face grey like all the color had been leached out of him, Lestrade slowly approached the young couple as if every step pained him. “I’m so sorry.”

The fearful hope in Patrick and Kathleen Hill’s eyes died as they saw the small, wrapped bundle cradled in Lestrade’s arms. Two anguished cries pierced the air like nothing John had ever heard. His heart began to beat faster and faster as if it needed to compensate for their broken ones. A suffocating heat built inside him. Sweat formed on his palms, then spread up his chest to grasp at his throat. His lungs constricted. His heart rate tripled. He was going to be sick.

John carefully backed out of the small house, went around the side, and vomited into the rose bushes. As an army doctor, he’d seen his share of death from war and disease, but nothing came close to this horror, to this devastating loss of an innocent, precious life. After emptying his stomach, he stumbled a few steps away, legs shaking, and leaned against a tree. At his feet, a single flower, pink petals barely open, heralded the coming of an early spring.

Fury, vast and vicious, burned through John’s veins like acid. His breath shuddered, fingers curling into the bark of the tree. How dare there be such a symbol of new life out here when a child lay dead inside? How _dare_ \--

A soft, almost apologetic breeze whispered through the garden, and the flower bowed its head. Sorrow, swift and staggering, rose up and swallowed the anger. John let out a choked sob, then bowed his head too, and wept. He only allowed himself a minute or two to fall apart, then took a deep breath and pulled himself together. When he turned around, he found Sherlock standing a short distance away, a silent, stoic witness to his grief.

How could Sherlock remain so removed from it all? So impervious to being hurt himself and untouched by the pain of others? While John sometimes wished for the same ability, he knew it was more crippling than an advantage. The impenetrable wall surrounding Sherlock blocked out pain, but it also blocked out love. It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t _care_ , John knew he did, but it was an unfinished sort of love, like a plant tucked away in a dark corner. It survived, but it didn’t thrive. John wanted more for Sherlock than that.

On their way home, John called in a prescription for a sleeping aid. It had been years since he’d had to do so, but sleep wouldn’t come otherwise, not after today. When he opened the bottle later on that evening, Sherlock approached him, and wordlessly held out a hand. The proud tilt of his jaw and stoic expression didn’t fool John. He knew hairline fractures when he saw them, and Sherlock’s armor hadn’t been quite enough to protect him today. A deep melancholy and profound weariness emanated from him. John placed two pills into his open palm. Sherlock took them and left for his bedroom.

_Present Day_

The same ritual had repeated every night for a month until the raw, ragged edges of that day slowly scarred over. And while they’d never talked about it, Sherlock’s silent request for help had spoken volumes. Beneath the great mind lay the potential for a great heart. Until it fought its way free though, John’s heart would have to be big enough for the both of them.

The honk of a car horn jarred John out of his wool-gathering, and the cabbie let out a curse. John glanced over at Sherlock who was reading something on his mobile. “Are-”

“We’re nearly there,” Sherlock said.

A combination of dread and hope twisted inside John’s stomach. He was relieved he hadn’t eaten dinner before Lestrade had called. It wouldn’t have sat well. The cab finally escaped the heavy traffic and made its way down a silent, sleepy street. Unpruned vines and careless hedges gave way to manicured lawns and sculpted shrubberies. They passed through a massive iron gate and turned up a long, curving drive. The elegant two-story manor would have blended in perfectly well with the rest of the neighborhood if not for the long line of police cars. John’s stomach twisted again, and he reminded himself that this case wasn’t like the last one. Bailey Bishop had only been missing six hours. She was also the daughter of a wealthy businessman who was best mates with Scotland Yard’s new Chief Superintendent. Unlike before, they had a headstart and additional resources.

Lestrade, who’d been waiting out front, ushered them through the double doors. To John's surprise the front entryway was devoid of any decor or furnishings. Instead, clear plastic lined the floor. A fine, white dust puffed into the air with every step. They passed a room with no door. The interior appeared to have been completely gutted, leaving only grey stone walls. Metal pipes and various construction debris were stacked off to one side. Someone was remodeling.

Lestrade led them down the hall, then to the left, and into a living room which held a single piece of furniture. A broad-shouldered man sat on a sheet-covered sofa with his arm around a quietly weeping woman. A number of police officers lined the perimeter of the room. Constable Billy Scott gave John a nod. Scotland Yard’s newest recruit, Riley Pringle, stood at a attention beside him. Despite his lanky height and pristine uniform, Riley still only managed to look about twelve years old. John couldn’t recall ever looking so fresh-faced and innocent. He hoped tonight wouldn’t change that.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, I know this hard. But now that everyone’s here, could you please recount the day’s events?"

Mrs. Bishop wiped at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "Yes, of course.” Her voice trembled. “Bailey’s been sick this whole week with the chicken pox. She's been begging me to let her go back to school and see her friends, but none of the mums wanted a sudden outbreak, so I made her stay home again. We’ve been staying upstairs due to the remodel. After throwing a fit, she stomped into her room. I checked on her a few times, but she was still in a strop and not speaking to me." Fresh tears trailed down her stricken face. "When I came back a half hour later to bring her a snack, she was gone."

“How old is she?” Lestrade asked.

“She just turned four last month,” Mr. Bishop said, speaking up for the first time. He let out a hoarse, painful laugh, edged with broken glass. “She insisted on a Peppa Pig themed birthday party, complete with mud puddle.”

A soft, rat-a-tat against plastic carried down the hall, and a small dog - no, puppy - darted through the crowd, yipping like mad. Its brown and white fur, docked tail, and soft, floppy ears identified it as an English Springer Spaniel.

"Nellie!" Mrs. Bishop scolded. "Get over here." But Nellie didn’t listen. She continued to bark and nipped at one of the officers who tried to reach for her.

John glanced at Sherlock, expecting an impatient sigh, but none came. Instead, something indiscernible flickered across Sherlock’s face. He crouched down and stretched out a hand. "Come here, Nellie," he crooned in a low, coaxing tone.

John’s mouth dropped open. His disbelief deepened as Nellie cautiously approached Sherlock and sniffed at his fingertips.

"That's it," Sherlock murmured. "Easy now." Moving slowly, he reached forward and scooped the puppy into his arms. It cuddled close to him, tucked its head beneath his chin, and whined softly, liquid brown eyes large and soulful.

Bloody hell. Since when had Sherlock become The Dog Whisperer? Lestrade and the other officers gaped at Sherlock, clearly just as surprised as John. Sherlock ignored them all and watched the Bishops.

"I found Nellie downstairs with the construction crew. I knew something was wrong then. She never leaves Bailey's side,” Mrs. Bishop said. “They’re inseparable.”

Mr. Bishop’s arm tightened around his wife’s shoulders. “There were a number of men working on the remodel project in our house today, but they’re all workers we’ve used before.” Expression tight with worry, he handed a slip of paper to Lestrade. "Here’s a list with everyone’s contact information like you asked."

Lestrade nodded. “We’ll also need a recent photograph of Bailey.”

Mr. Bishop pulled out his mobile, then brought a picture up on the screen. “Here."

The phone was passed in a circle around the room. Every officer took a photograph of it with their own mobile. John followed suit after showing it to Sherlock. Bailey grinned at the camera, nose scrunched, one tooth missing. Hair the color of wheat, and just as messy, was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail. She reminded John of Harriet a bit.

The phone came around to Mrs. Bishop, and her face crumpled. "She never lets me do her hair, always screeches when I touch it. Doesn't care if she looks a right mess." Tears flowing freely again, Mrs. Bishop covered her mouth with a shaking hand.  
“I promise we’ll do everything we can to bring her back safe and sound to you. I called in our very best,” Lestrade said, gaze flicking to Sherlock. “We’d like to use this room for our base of operations, if we can.”

“Certainly. We’ll go sit in my study,” Mr. Bishop said, rising from the sofa.

"Another officer will be into see you shortly with more questions, but I'll let you know the second we find anything out.”

“Thank you." Mr. Bishop helped his wife to her feet, then escorted her out of the room.

As soon as their footsteps faded, Lestrade cast a gimlet eye around the room. "Right. We've got a little girl missing, and we need to find her quickly. Lassiter and O’Hara; I want you two to bring the Bishops a cuppa and question them about their neighbors, friends, family, and colleagues. See if there’s anyone holding a grudge or in dire financial straits. Evans and Crothers; comb through the security footage. There are outside cameras that may have caught something, then walk the perimeter and question the neighbors. McMurphy and Fisher; I want recording equipment set up on Mr. and Mrs. Bishop's land lines and mobile phones in case anyone calls. Scott and Riley; You two will be combing through the list Mr. Bishop gave me. Cross-check their records for any red flags. If you find even a hint of something suspicious, you call me. Got it?"

A chorus of agreement sounded.

"Good. Go."

The officers dispersed to their duties.

"What about us?" John asked.

Sherlock interrupted before Lestrade could respond. "You're both with me, of course.” Still holding the puppy, he headed down a corridor in the opposite direction from everyone else.

And there it was: the arrogance John had been waiting for. Thank God.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade called after Sherlock.

"To Bailey’s room. Where else?"

John and Lestrade followed after him and ascended the stairs to the second floor. Unlike below, the upstairs was clearly lived in and much more in keeping with the manor’s posh exterior. Sherlock swept past three doorways, then entered the fourth, like he had some sort of homing beacon showing him the way. Inside, it looked like Noah’s ark had exploded. Stuffed animals of every shape and size covered the floor. Sherlock set Nellie down on the bed. She let out a whimper and curled up on the pillow, head on her paws.

After a quick perusal of the room, Sherlock opened Bailey’s closet and began to poke through her laundry hamper. “She’s very active,” he murmured.

"How can you tell?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock held up a dirty sock. It might have been white at one time, but it wasn’t now. Besides the hole in the big toe, there were grass stains and burrs all over it. "The rest of her clothing is the same. She's outside more than in if she can help it. Being cooped up inside must have been driving her mad."

John pulled back the curtain and peered out the window. There was a tree nearby, but it wasn't close enough to climb, and unlike at _Brackenwood_ , there wasn't a handy gutter or sloping rooftop to use. “She couldn’t have gone out this way.”

"With all the construction noise and commotion, she could have easily slipped out the back door unnoticed," Lestrade said.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Bailey would never have left Nellie behind. Look at the fur all over the bed and pillow. They’re attached - even in sleep." Sherlock walked back over to the bed. "Nellie," he said, voice urgent.

The dog's ears perked up, eyes bright and alert.

"Where's Bailey? Find Bailey."

With a yip, Nellie hopped off the bed and scampered out of the room. Sherlock followed.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Lestrade muttered, as they hurried after him. "This is turning into an episode of Lassie."

John chuckled, taking the stairs two at a time. It made sense to at least try. Even though Nellie was just a puppy, dogs were known to have strong bonds with their owners.

Nellie led them past Billy Scott and Riley, who were in the living room, then down the hallway, and into the first room they had passed on their way inside the house. All four walls were made of grey stone. A pile of broken bricks were stacked in one corner. Three large slabs of marble leaned against one wall and beside it, a stainless steel sink. Ah. The Bishops were updating the manor's outdated kitchen. They found Nellie waiting for them in the far corner of the room, gaze expectant.

Beside her sat an empty dog food bowl.

John sighed, disappointed. That would have been far too easy. The poor dog was probably starving because she'd missed dinner in all the chaos.

Sherlock bent down and examined the shining metal food bowl.

"Right," Lestrade said, tone impatient. "I don't think Bailey's hiding in there, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him and patted the dog on the head. "You're smarter than everyone here. Perhaps you should be the inspector."

Nellie barked as if in agreement.

Turning away from the puppy, Sherlock tapped a finger against the brick wall. "Half of this is new. See the markings here? Genuine age is impossible to fake." His eyes narrowed.

"What is it?" John asked.

Of course he didn't answer.

Sherlock prowled around the space then paused beside a blue bucket. He reached inside it and pulled out a pair of safety ear muffs. A small, satisfied smile suddenly formed on his face.

John’s heart leapt. He _knew_ that smile. It only happened when Sherlock discovered the final clue for a case.

"C'mon, Sherlock. Give us a bloody clue. What have you found?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock’s smile widened, and John wasn’t even mad. Somehow, someway, Bailey Bishop was going to be just fine, and that was enough for John.

Sherlock set the pair of safety ear muffs back in the bucket and straightened. “I require assistance."

“Assistance? Since when do you require assistance?” Lestrade asked.

“Since now,” Sherlock said, impatience entering his tone.

“Fine. Alright. What do you need?”

Sherlock’s eyes lingered on the grey stone wall behind Nellie for a moment, then he turned to face them fully. "I need Vivian Walker.” The blunt statement echoed through the room.

John stared at him. “What?”

"What do you need her for?" Lestrade asked, equally bewildered.

"Unlike John's girlfriend, mine is actually useful." Sherlock smirked and strode out of the room. Nellie followed at his heels.

Startled laughter bubbled up in John’s chest. It appeared Sherlock was going to embrace his new “relationship” with Vivian on two levels. The first being his fake relationship with Miranda Blythe, of course. The second: Scotland Yard already thought Sherlock and Vivian were shagging. Rumors, each one more outlandish than the next, ran rampant about the pair. And all because of one misconstrued scene in the loo at the New Year’s Eve party. Apparently, Sherlock intended to actually follow through on John’s advice and play up the relationship to his advantage somehow.

Lestrade caught John’s arm before he could follow. “Hang on. Is she really his girlfriend now?”

Another chuckle left him. “Yes and no. It’s complicated. I’ll tell you about it over a pint later.”

An eager nod. “I’ll buy.”

They followed Sherlock back into the living room. Billy Scott and Riley sat at one of the tables that had been set up, files spread out across the surface. Riley was typing away at a laptop, while Billy Scott was barking out names and numbers to him.

"No criminal record for him, sir," Riley replied.

"Let's try the next one then," Billy Scott said.

Lestrade's mobile rang, and he moved to the other side of the room to answer it.

Riley ceased typing when Sherlock approached, hazel eyes gone wide. John bit back a grin. The young rookie had a serious case of hero worship for Sherlock. Billy Scott had confided to John that he'd finally had to threaten the kid with cleaning out the drunk tank with a toothbrush to get him to shut his gob about Sherlock. John didn't see the harm in the kid’s admiration as long as Riley only emulated Sherlock's methods and not his attitude.

Sherlock ran an assessing gaze over Riley, then nodded. "You'll do."

Riley blinked. “Sorry?”

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked him.

A quick glance at his computer. "Just six, Mr. Holmes."

"I need you to pick up Vivian Walker. She has a six-thirty dinner reservation with a man at The Five Fields."

Shock rippled through John. He’d thought Sherlock had planned to ring Vivian up on the phone, not use police resources to actually bring her here. What the hell was going on? The tiniest flicker of doubt flared in his mind. Was Sherlock using the case as an excuse to interrupt Vivian’s dinner? Was he...jealous?

No. That wasn’t possible. Sherlock didn’t feel jealousy. He’d have to care first. And for that to happen, there’d need to be a major breach in the wall that still surrounded him. John would have noticed it slipping. No, there had to be a genuine reason Sherlock needed Vivian here. Annoying Victor was likely just an added perk.

Billy Scott's orange, bristling brows rose. "You need us to pick up your girlfriend?"

"I require her assistance with this case," Sherlock said.

Riley closed his laptop and frowned. "Why's she on a date with another bloke if she's with you?"

"It's not a date,” Sherlock said, a slight edge to his tone. “It's a business meeting with an old friend of mine, Victor Trevor."

John scoffed. "Please. We both know it’s not just a business meeting to Victor." He'd only met the man twice, but Victor's adoration of women and his charming ease with them had been readily apparent. It didn't surprise John one bit that Vivian had agreed to dinner with him. Harriet would have probably agreed to dinner with the man, and she was gay.

Sherlock shot him an irritated glance.

"Right." Billy Scott leaned forward, voice low. "You want me and Riley to rough him up for ya while we're at it?"

If John hadn’t been watching Sherlock so closely, he would have missed it, but there it was: the tiniest quirk to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock wasn’t annoyed anymore. Oh no. Now, he was having _fun_.

"I trust you'll do whatever you think is necessary," Sherlock said.

This time John couldn't help but smile. That was pretty much Sherlock-speak for, "Oh yes, and with great vigor." Victor Trevor was going to be in for a very interesting encounter with the loyal officers of Scotland Yard.

Riley gave Sherlock a solemn nod and rose to his feet. "We'll take care of him, Mr. Holmes."

"Be back in a mo with your girl," Billy Scott said with a wink.

After the two officers left, Lestrade came over to them, face grim. "One of the neighbors, Paul Hopkins, has a record. One count of assault and and two of burglary. And get this - he's got quite the gambling debt. How's that for a motive?"

"The neighbor’s not involved," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand.

“I can’t afford to let this lead go, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. “So, unless you can magically produce Bailey Bishop in the next ten seconds, he’s now our primary suspect.”

“If you want to send your officers on a wild goose chase, it’s fine by me,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade ran an agitated hand through his hair, then frowned at the empty table and discarded paperwork. "Where'd Scott and Riley go?"

"On an errand.”

John cut in with an actual answer. "He sent the boys to pick up Vivian."

"What? You actually need her?" Lestrade said, incredulous.

"While it's rare, I have consulted other people on cases before," Sherlock ground out.

“Yeah, but not like this.”

A half hour of Sherlock pacing the room later, the click of the front doors opening and closing sounded. Sherlock came to a halt in front of the fireplace, and all three of them watched the entryway to the living room. A minute later, Vivian appeared. She wore a shimmering, deep blue, Grecian style gown. It flowed over her curves, classy and elegant. She looked absolutely stunning. But that wasn't what made both John and Lestrade rise from the sofa and slowly back away. It was the expression on Vivian's face. She looked like a murderous Siren intent on making Sherlock’s ears bleed before leading him to a violent death. Her cheeks, neck, hell, even the tops of her shoulders were scarlet with fury. She marched over to Sherlock, fingers white around a small, sparkling clutch. Was she going to slug Sherlock with it?

Now that John thought about it, Sherlock deserved it. And so did he. He'd been so caught up in the case and amused by Victor having his date stolen that he hadn't spared a thought to how Vivian would react to it all. John was used to his personal life being interrupted by Sherlock. Vivian wasn’t.

Vivian’s voice, low and livid, coiled through the air. "I have never been so humiliated in my entire life. I was dragged out the of restaurant like some... some... _criminal!_ And Victor, my God, poor Victor. They were even worse with him."

Riley and Billy Scott sidled over to John and Lestrade.

"I tried to explain the situation, sir, " Billy Scott said to Lestrade. "But she was so busy cursing Sherlock's name, I couldn't get a word in edgewise." His expression turned admiring. "Cor, she's a feisty one. No wonder he fancies her."

"She made me sit in the back," Riley whispered, looking cowed.

Vivian was still laying into Sherlock, who merely stood there letting the verbal tidal wave crash over him.

"You took me away from my meal, Sherlock, right when it was being brought out. I didn't even get one bite! Not _one_."

Oh God. This was far worse than John had thought. Vivian might well and truly kill Sherlock for what he’d done. “Hell hath no fury like a woman whose food was taken from her,” John murmured to the wide-eyed men beside him.

When she finally paused to take a breath, Sherlock cut in. "A little girl is missing."

Vivian swayed back a step. "What?" For the first time, her gaze left Sherlock and swept around the room, taking in the hastily put up tables, scattered paperwork, and John, Lestrade, Riley, and Billy Scott huddled in the corner. She went still. “What’s going on?”

“I need your help,” Sherlock said quietly.

The anger and confusion on Vivian’s face vanished. She set her clutch down on the table, and her expression sharpened. “What can I do?”

"Follow me." Sherlock gestured for John and Lestrade to do the same, but held up a hand when Billy and Riley moved to do so. "Wait here, please."

Sherlock led them back into the kitchen. Nellie had returned to her dog bowl. She yipped when she saw them. Sherlock moved the bowl, then picked Nellie up and handed her to John. "Keep her out of the way."

The puppy tried to squirm out of his arms, but John managed to keep hold of her. He imitated the soft, soothing sound Sherlock had made, and she relaxed, staring up at him with mournful brown eyes. He stroked her head. If John hadn't been a proper, stiff upper lip sort of Englishman, he might have melted into a puddle over the cuteness. Oh alright. Maybe he would melt later.

Sherlock handed Vivian the safety ear muffs from the blue bucket. “Put these on.”

She complied without question.

After picking up two sections of discarded metal pipe off the ground, Sherlock began to alternate between clanging the two together and smacking one of the brick walls. It wasn't enough to cause any damage, but it certainly created an awful racket. The strident sound of metal upon metal resounded through the room. John wished he had his hands free to cover his ears, like Lestrade had done, but he was far too busy keeping hold of Nellie who was now howling and trying to escape. Vivian still winced with the safety ear muffs on. After a few minutes of moving up and down the wall, Sherlock stopped and set the pipes aside.

After Vivian removed the ear protection, Sherlock beckoned her over and tapped on the wall. "I need you to listen."

Her eyebrows drew together. "I don’t understand. What am I listening for?"

"Bailey Bishop. Four years old. Wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up."

Vivian stared.

John's stomach crashed into his shoes. "Oh my God. You think she's in the wall."

"What?" Lestrade exclaimed, looking thunderstruck.

Sherlock nodded curtly. "I'll explain later." He turned back to Vivian. "I need you to listen for crying. I'm hoping the noise from the pipes woke her up if she’s fallen asleep."

Eyes wide with horror, Vivian placed her ear against the brick. Starting from one end, she made her way along the wall, stopping at short intervals.

John suddenly found himself grateful for the puppy in his arms and held his breath as Vivian continued to listen. Her face was tense, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes closed in concentration. She moved forward a pace and then back, then raised up on her tip-toes. "I need something to stand on," she said, ear still pressed to the wall.

Sherlock disappeared and returned a moment later with a rickety looking stool. John had no idea where he'd found it. As soon as Sherlock set it in front of Vivian, she kicked off her heels and scrambled up the two rungs and onto the seat with little regard for her own safety. Unprepared for her sudden weight, the stool's uneven legs sent it wobbling toward Sherlock, threatening to take Vivian with it. Before she could topple over, Sherlock's hands shot out and gripped her upper thighs. Vivian’s left hand flailed through the air, then landed on Sherlock’s head as she recovered her balance. She looked down at him and cleared her throat. The faintest hint of pink colored her cheeks. "Thank you."

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock continued to hold her steady while she pressed her ear against the wall again.

Between Sherlock's impeccable suit, Vivian's fancy dress, and the rather provocative position, it looked like the two of them were posing for some sort of sexy, modern clothing advert.

"Can you move me toward you two inches?" Vivian asked.

“Push the stool toward me,” Sherlock said to Lestrade, who appeared rather fixated on where Sherlock's hands were currently located.

"What? Oh. Right." Lestrade hurried over and pushed the back of the stool. Sherlock, still holding onto Vivian, hooked one foot on the front rung and carefully pulled. The stool slid closer to him. One inch. Then two.

"Stop." Vivian pressed her ear to the wall again, then gasped. "Oh my God. I can hear her. She's crying." Eyes bright, Vivian beamed down at Sherlock and laughed. "She's alive!"

The smirk on Sherlock’s face quickly broadened into a fierce, victorious grin. "I know."

The breath left John's lungs in a whoosh. "Thank God."

"We've got to get her out of there," Lestrade said, looking both relieved and a bit frantic.

"Yes, but the bricks will need to be removed carefully so as not to injure Bailey. I need something for Vivian to mark the wall with," Sherlock said.

"Here." Lestrade produced a Sharpie marker from his pocket and handed it to Vivian.

"Draw a perimeter around where you hear the sound the loudest so we can have the best idea of where she's located," Sherlock said.

A rough rectangle slowly formed in the upper corner, directly above where Bailey’s dog bowl had been. After Vivian finished, Sherlock helped her down from the stool.

Two hours later, Bailey Bishop was safely extracted from a recently bricked up dumbwaiter.

 

*******

 

John let out a contented sigh as he stood outside the Bishop’s manor with Sherlock, Vivian, Lestrade, and the other officers. A few stars winked here and there through the broken cloud cover, a sign the storm had passed. He smiled.

Tonight, Mr. and Mrs. Bishop’s cries of joy had eased an old, aching wound.

Tonight, a family had been made whole again.

Tonight, John would sleep just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think, my dears? Spoiler Alert: The evening is far from over... ;-)
> 
> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and reviews. I treasure each one. All of you are wonderful!


	16. Chapter 16

Relief and pride, a potent combination, soared through Sherlock, setting his whole body buzzing. He felt lighter than air, as if he might lift off like a rocket into the night sky. There was nothing quite like the heady rush from solving a case. No drug could compare. And this resolution in particular had been more gratifying than usual. This case hadn't ended like their last one involving a child.

Scotland Yard's finest milled about in front of the Bishop's manor in gleeful camaraderie, stopping every so often to clap Sherlock on the back or shake his hand. He finally had shove his hand into his coat pocket to avoid anymore contact. John received the same enthusiastic treatment, while Vivian, Billy Scott at her side, was escorted around like a visiting dignitary. Whenever her back was turned, one officer or another would eye Vivian up and down, then shoot a sly glance or teasing grin at Sherlock. They thought they were being circumspect, but they really weren't. It was both amusing and pathetic.

Fortunately, Vivian appeared too enmeshed in her conversation with O'Hara and Billy Scott to notice the attention. All the same, he backed away a few steps and into a spot on the wide drive where the golden glow from the manor's exterior lights dissolved into shadow. A group of officers congregated nearby.

Mark Fisher waggled his eyebrows at Ian McMurphy. "What do you think Sherlock's going to do to celebrate?"

Ian snorted. "What do you think he's going to do?" He nodded at Vivian. "It's just the location that's in question."

"I doubt it'll be the loo again."

"Nah, I bet he'll take her somewhere posh," Ian said in a low voice. "She's got that fancy dress on."

Crothers leaned in, face incredulous. "Don't be daft. That thing's not staying on long. He'll take her straight home."

"If they make it that far," Mark said, sounding dubious.

Ears glowing red, Riley remained silent and stared down at his boots. Sherlock moved the rookie up two spaces on his Least Annoying Officers List.

A snicker. "Maybe we should give John some ear protection. He'll not get any rest otherwise."

"Yeah, she's a shouty one. 'Course gingers always are."

"I bet the pair of them are like banshees."

Poorly muffled laughter carried across the drive.

Vivian's head whipped around. The officers froze like rabbits faced with a hungry fox. Eyebrows stretched high on her forehead, she looked more surprised than offended by the speculation. Curious. Sherlock had expected a faint frown or an eye-roll at the very least, but neither appeared forthcoming. Her gaze shifted, then swept across the crowd, as if in search of something. Or someone. Realizing she was looking for him, Sherlock retreated another step. The movement was his undoing. Her gaze caught and tangled with his. The color rose in her cheeks, and he felt his own face grow warm. She'd overheard the conversation. She knew Sherlock had overheard it. She had to be wondering why they were even a topic and why he'd done nothing to stop it. And now here they were, staring at one another following a rather detailed discussion about the two of them shagging.

"You don't think she heard us, do you?" Ian whispered.

Sherlock cleared his throat. The small sound acted like a bowling ball on a group of pins. The men scattered. By the time Sherlock's line of sight was restored, Vivian had resumed her conversation with O'Hara and Billy Scott like nothing had happened.

John wandered over to Sherlock. "I'm going out with the boys to celebrate. You want to come?"

Sherlock shot him a look.

"Right. I didn't think so. You and Vivian can take the cab the Bishops called in for us then. It should be here soon."

"I'll tell Mrs. Hudson to leave the front door unlocked."

An exasperated huff. "I'm not going to get pissed, Sherlock."

"That's what you said the last time you celebrated with Scotland Yard." The next morning, Sherlock had found John slumped against the outside door, snoring. John had managed to get the key in the lock, but had been far too inebriated to figure out the next step. Fortunately, it had been the middle of summer, else he would have frozen to death.

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"No." He'd taken a picture of John drooling on the front doorstep and set it as the background on John's laptop. It took John two weeks to figure out how to change it back. It later appeared on Scotland Yard's Wall of Shame. Of course, every officer, including Lestrade, had been on the board at one time or another. Even Sherlock. But that hadn't really counted since he'd been drugged by Irene Adler at the time. He had Lestrade to thank for that photograph.

"I'll be sure to return the favor if you ever get drunk," John said.

"If I ever get drunk, you're more than welcome to take as many photographs as you wish." Alcohol intoxication held no allure for Sherlock. He'd only been drunk once in his life, and that had been an experiment to determine his body's tolerance levels.

John laughed and tapped his own temple. "I'm going to remember that. I'll file it away in my Mind Teepee."

"Careful. You have little enough room as it is."

Following a round of cheerful goodbyes, John and the remaining officers dispersed into the squad cars and drove off. Sherlock and Vivian were left facing one another across the wide drive, bathed in the soft glow of the exterior lights. She glided over to join him. The soft fabric of her Grecian gown eddied around her legs with every step, curling and caressing like a wave. It was the same deep blue as the Aegean Sea at twilight. It didn't look like business meeting attire to Sherlock. It looked like the sort of dress one wore on a date. The dark creature from yesterday roused with a hiss. Of course Victor hadn't had much time to admire Vivian's dress. The agitation in his stomach calmed.

"How did you know Bailey Bishop was stuck in the wall?" Vivian asked, head tilted to the side.

Sherlock smiled. Everyone had been so giddy over the little girl being found no one had bothered to ask him. "The first clue was in Bailey's room. Her torn and dirty clothing told me she liked to explore, often in places her mother didn't approve. The next clue was Nellie. The bond between animals and their owners is a strange, but well-documented phenomenon. Their connection was readily apparent. Nellie led me into the kitchen where she last saw Bailey. John and Lestrade assumed she was sitting by her food bowl because she was waiting for her dinner. They were wrong. The bowl was clean of the white dust that permeated the rest of the house, indicating Nellie had recently eaten. I also knew it was unlikely the Bishops would place Nellie's bowl in the kitchen where it would be underfoot during the remodel. That meant Mr. or Mrs. Bishop had brought Nellie's food there because she refused to leave the spot."

Vivian's brows knit together. "Alright, but how did Bailey get in the wall in the first place?"

"Child's play. Literally and figuratively." He smirked. "Bailey was recovering from the chicken pox. Bored with being cooped up in the house, but knowing she wasn't allowed out, she sneaked downstairs into the kitchen while the workers were on lunch break. There was a small space left open in the brick at the bottom of the dumbwaiter. I imagine she wanted one last go of it before she lost the chance. When she reached the top, it got stuck. She yelled for help, but none of the men heard her. They were all wearing ear protection due to the tile and sheet rock work going on. Ignoring Nellie's frantic barking, the workers proceeded to brick their employer's daughter into the wall of her own house."

Vivian glanced over at the manor, then back at Sherlock and shook her head. A soft laugh.

"What?" he asked.

"You saved that little girl's life." There was a strange note in her voice.

Sherlock's breath caught. He knew that sound. He'd heard it before, but never from her. It was the sound of _approval_. A very different sort of high, far stronger than the previous one, rushed through his veins.

"I've never seen you on a case," she continued. Frank admiration shone from her green eyes, warming him down to the marrow. "You really _are_ impressive."

His respiration increased along with his heart rate, limbs tingling. He'd heard the sentiment expressed in countless ways over the years, so much so, the words had grown empty and meaningless. But somehow, coming from Vivian, the words held weight. Her opinion mattered.

She cleared her throat when he continued to stare at her. "Right. Sorry. You probably get that all time." Her gaze left his, and she stared down the drive.

"No...I-I-" Sherlock scrambled for something to say, still stunned. A memory surfaced: John's elbow jabbing him in the ribs. _When someone compliments you, thank them. Don't be a git._ This time, Sherlock listened. "...Thank you."

The faint curve of her lips told Sherlock he'd said the right thing. "You're welcome." Vivian's eyes returned to his, expression curious. "Why didn't you call me at the restaurant? Victor had his car. He could have brought me here. It would have been faster."

 _Victor_. Vivian had spent less than an hour in the man's presence, and she was already calling him by his first name. It took Sherlock ten days and saving her life to manage the same. Irritation made his voice sharp. "Like you would have answered."

"I would have. I had my mobile on vibrate."

"No." His voice was flat. "You would have been far too distracted by the food and being charmed by _Victor_ to pay any attention to your phone."

"Oh, I didn't realize enjoying my evening was a crime. Is that why you sent the police?"

A cab slowly wound its way up the drive.

His tone hardened. "There wasn't time for pleasantries not with a child's life on the line."

"Fine. But you could have at least come yourself or told the officers to let me ride with Victor instead of taking me away in a ruddy squad car."

The dark creature snarled, jaws snapping. What had Victor done to make Vivian so enamored with him so quickly? Words spilled out of Sherlock's mouth, low and scathing. "I didn't want to _see_ Victor Trevor. I didn't want him _here_."

Shock and confusion flooded Vivian's face.

Sherlock wrenched the door to the cab open, slid inside, and snapped out both their addresses. Vivian followed a moment later. A strained silence strangled the air between them. Sherlock stared out the window, jaw tight. His neck prickled. Vivian was watching him. His jaw tightened further. Since Vivian fancied Victor so much, maybe he should have given the cabbie Victor's address instead. The two could just forget dinner altogether and skip to the part Victor liked best. Sherlock's knuckles whitened on the side door.

"I don't understand," Vivian said.

Sherlock whipped around to face her. "Allow me to enlighten you. Your dinner this evening wasn't a consultation to help improve Victor's business. It was an interview for a highly sought after position: the next Mrs. Trevor. The fifth one, to be exact. Victor is a serial monogamist intent on securing his next wife, and you're at the top of his list. Tonight was merely his first step in a long play to reel you in." A twinge of guilt. Victor adored women, and they adored him back. The man's behavior had never bothered Sherlock before. He couldn't understand why it did now.

Vivian stared at him.

Was he not being clear? "Marrying Victor isn't until death do you part, Vivian. It'll last two to three years at most. Once he's finished with you, he'll move onto someone else."

Her lips twitched.

It was his turn to stare. What-

Laughter burst out of her, bright and joyful. The exuberant sound startled both Sherlock and the cabbie, who almost jerked them out of their lane.

Annoyance flared. She wasn't taking him seriously. "I'm not joking."

That only made her laugh harder. Breathless, she finally clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes bright with apology and mirth. A few more chuckles escaped.

Sherlock wasn't amused. He was the opposite of amused. In fact, the only thing that could possibly amuse him at the moment would be shoving Vivian out of the cab. They were still in the residential neighborhood and not going very fast. She could laugh all she wanted on the walk home.

Her hand reached out and landed on his knee. The joint immediately voted to forgive her, nerve-endings delighted by her presence. He glared down at it. Traitor. Maybe he'd find an orthopedic surgeon to replace it. See how it liked that.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, really I am. I promise I'm not laughing at you. I just-" Her voice wavered, then cracked. Another snicker. "I just can't believe you think I'd _marry_ Victor Trevor. _Victor_." She shook her head like it was the most outlandish idea in creation.

"He's been married four times previously. Marriage isn't exactly outside the realm of possibility."

"For him, certainly. To me, never." Her tone brooked no argument.

Sherlock frowned at her. "But his wives adore him. All the separations were amicable. How are you not interested in him?"

She grinned. "Maybe you should marry him."

He ignored the quip. "At Cubic, when I said tonight sounded like quite the date. You told me you were going to wait and see."

"For God's sake, give me some credit." Her hand left his knee. "I'm not that easily led. I knew Victor wanted more than a business meeting, I just wasn't sure whether he intended to make that clear over dinner or not."

"Why go if you weren't at all interested?"

"I wasn't about to say no to dinner at The Five Fields, Sherlock. Besides, I only agreed to a business meeting. I wasn't leading him on. I would never do that," she said quietly. Her expression turned mournful. "But I was punished all the same. Riley and Billy Scott arrived right when the food came out. It smelled heavenly." Her lower lip pouted, green eyes large and tragic. She should have been in theatre.

"I'm sure you'll have another opportunity to dine there."

Genuine regret darkened her gaze. "Not after tonight's debacle. Even if I could miraculously get another reservation, they blacklisted me." A wince. "I wasn't very...cooperative with leaving at first."

Sherlock had expected resistance. That was one reason why he'd sent Riley and Billy Scott to fetch her. He'd hoped the uniformed men would have an easier time getting Vivian to comply. Evidently not. He tutted. "Disturbing the peace. I'm shocked."

"I was looking forward to it the whole week," she said, tone defensive. Her gaze dropped to her hands, and she shook head. "Sorry. I know it's stupid. Here I am moaning about missing dinner when I helped save a little girl's life. I really am glad they dragged me out of there."

So was Sherlock. Vivian had set about doing exactly as requested with soldier-like efficiency. She'd remained calm and focused. She hadn't bothered him with trivial questions. She'd even approached him afterwards, interested in knowing how he'd done it. If only everyone were like that.

The street lights flashed across Vivian's face in quick succession as the cab picked up speed. She shifted in her seat. One arm settled across her stomach, and she grimaced.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock wondered if the illness John had mentioned the other day had returned.

A wry glance. "I'm fine. It's not like I was stuck in a wall for ten hours. I only missed dinner. I'll heat something up at home and be right as rain." With that, she rested her head against the window and shut her eyes.

The quiet that descended this time was absent of strain but still equally disturbing to Sherlock. Vivian's current state of discomfort was his fault. He'd been the one who caused her to miss her meal. A meal she'd greatly anticipated. While his reason hadn't been frivolous, the result was still the same. His stomach churned. Vivian had assisted him, and he hadn't even thanked her. He opened his mouth, then shut it just as quickly. She didn't look like she wanted to talk at the moment, and John was always harping on him about timing. The cab passed a row of restaurants, windows dark. Pity there wasn't one open at this late hour. He could have at least bought her take-out in compensation.

An idea, incandescent in its simplicity, flared to life in his mind.

He could fix this.

But he'd need help. Help from someone who had resources. Someone with clout. Someone who couldn't be denied. Sherlock's mouth twisted in annoyance. There was only one man who met those qualifications. But how to get him to cooperate? Oh yes. That would definitely work. Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

_Have you been to The Five Fields? -SH_

It was almost unnecessary to ask, but best to be sure. A few minutes later, Sherlock's mobile chimed.

_Yes. Dare I ask why you're inquiring this of me at 10pm? -MH_

_7th October 1998. -SH_

A pause.

_You have my attention, brother dear. -MH_

_I'll tell you the location of the polaroid photograph if you cooperate. -SH_

The reply was immediate.

_What do you want? -MH_

Sherlock began to type out his demands, then stopped. What was he thinking? He had the British Government at his mercy. He could do far better than The Five Fields.

_Forget The Five Fields. Who is the best chef in London? -SH_

_Lucas Dubois. -MH_

_I require a meal prepared by him. Something impressive. -SH_

Sherlock planned to do more than just make amends to Vivian for interrupting her dinner. He intended to dazzle her -- to thoroughly usurp her memory of Victor Trevor and the missed meal. Sherlock wouldn't completely eradicate it. Oh no, that would defeat the whole point. Instead, Victor would remain in the back of her mind, dim and dull by comparison. Sherlock smiled. 

A voice in his head piped up asking why Victor's behavior irritated him now when it hadn't before. He banished it to his purgatory room. All that mattered was removing the source of his irritation. The next few hours would achieve that. There'd be no second date for Victor Trevor. Not after tonight.

Sherlock returned his attention to his phone.

_The location needs to be somewhere private. Sophisticated. With an excellent view of the city. -SH_

_When? -MH_

_Twenty minutes ago. - SH_

Sherlock could practically see the consternation puckering Mycroft's brow. He wasn't concerned though. Mycroft would manage it. It wasn't as if Sherlock had asked him to stage a coup or something. Considering the sensitive nature of the polaroid photograph, Sherlock could have asked for a great deal more, and Mycroft knew that. There'd be no complaints from him.

Two minutes passed, then additional details appeared on Sherlock's mobile, including their new destination. Another chime.

_Pull around to the back alley. Alex Winter will meet you there and escort you inside. -MH_

Sherlock replied with the location of the photograph. He wasn't worried about Mycroft holding up his end of the bargain. While they agreed on very little, keeping their word was one of them. Doing so made these little negotiations possible.

When the cab stopped at a red light, Sherlock tapped lightly on the barrier and showed the cabbie the new address. The man read it, nodded, then made a right.

A moment later, Sherlock's mobile flickered. He watched as the text conversation between him and Mycroft slowly erased. Just like it never happened, which according to the British Government, it never had.

Ten minutes later, Vivian's eyes fluttered open. She frowned. "This isn't my neighborhood. Is the cabbie lost?"

"We're making a stop."

"What? Why?"

"You'll see."

Her face fell, shoulders slumping. "I just want to go home and eat, Sherlock. I'm done in. Please?"

The earnest appeal shattered any confidence he'd had in the plan. What had he been thinking? That she'd want to spend the rest of her evening with him? After he'd already ruined her dinner? He was an idiot. Neither one of her plans for the evening had included him. Better to just forget the whole thing. Sherlock leaned forward to tell the driver to continue on, but it was too late. The car was already pulling into the alley.

"Here we are," the cabbie announced.

A man emerged from the shadows: Alex Winter. If they left now, Alex would immediately report back to Mycroft. Mycroft would then cancel Sherlock's demands, smug in the knowledge he'd come out ahead in their deal. Sherlock couldn't allow that to happen. There had to be a way to change Vivian's mind.

He handed the cabbie their fare and included a generous tip. "Wait here. If we're not back in ten minutes, you can go."

The man nodded.

"Right. Let's just pretend like I don't exist," Vivian grumbled. She glowered out the window. "Where are we anyway?"

Sherlock exited the cab, came around to her side, and opened the door. "Come find out."

"No. All I want to do is go home and eat."

Appealing to her natural curiosity hadn't worked. He should have expected that. Only one thought dominated Vivian's mind at the moment: food. He really needed to start carrying around sweets in his pocket. Bribery had proven quite effective with her in the past. The remaining options available to him weren't particularly promising. Any attempt to physically remove her from the cab would only result in grave personal injury. Since Sherlock preferred to keep his life and limbs intact, that option was out. He only had one card left to play. But it was a dangerous one. Dangerous enough to make him hesitate, but not dangerous enough to stop him.

He went all in.

"Trust me." He offered her his hand.

Vivian stared down at his palm like she'd never seen it before. He supposed she hadn't. Not like this. The profoundly vulnerable gesture was equally unfamiliar to him.

Time slowed. Only truth, pure and brutal, existed in this weighty moment caught between seconds.

Russian Roulette would have been the wiser choice. A bullet would only harm his flesh. Vivian's response, however, had the power to cut him far more deeply.

A soft intake of breath. Vivian's. Not his. No -- he wasn't breathing at all.

Time stuttered, then resumed.

"Alright." Her hand rose, then slid into his.

Something clicked together inside Sherlock, like two puzzle pieces sliding into place. Warmth spread out from the spot in ever expanding circles until it suffused his entire body. His brain felt like it had been dipped in champagne. He'd been so focused on bracing himself for her rejection, he hadn't spared a thought for what her acceptance would do to him. Send him higher than a kite, apparently. Fortunately, he had experience with acting normal while under the influence.

Taking a steadying breath, Sherlock helped Vivian out of the cab, then turned to face the man who'd been waiting for them. He was of average height, average build, and utterly unmemorable. Not for the first time, Sherlock found his gaze wanting to slide off the man and over to the trash bin leaning against the wall or to the pavement at his feet. Alex Winter managed to make both appear more interesting. Therein lay his valuable skill: near invisibility. It made him an excellent spy.

"This way, Mr. Holmes." Alex headed toward the back of a building lost in shadows.

"Who is he?" Vivian whispered.

"A minion."

"I didn't know you had minions."

"I don't. He's on loan for the evening from an archenemy."

Vivian snickered. Sherlock smiled, amused she thought he was joking, and pulled her through the open door.

Alex led the way down a dimly lit corridor to a lift. When the doors opened, he remained outside and put an arm out to keep it from closing. As he waved them forward, Alex's gaze flicked between them and paused for a split second, just below their waists. Sherlock's own eyes dipped downward, curious over what could have drawn the man's attention. His stomach swooped like he was already on the lift.

He was still holding Vivian's hand.

How had he not noticed until now? Despite the distraction of Alex Winter's presence, it should have been impossible for Vivian's persistent touch to escape Sherlock's notice. His entire right side was practically humming with warmth as if his circulation there had doubled. Stranger still, Vivian's hand in his somehow felt like a natural extension to his own body. It suddenly occurred to him why. In offering Vivian his hand, Sherlock's body, without consulting his brain, had officially deemed all physical contact with her not only acceptable, but welcome. While the gesture had admittedly been an unusual one, Sherlock's subconscious had taken the simple action and run with it, offering far more than he'd ever intended. Figuring out how to reverse the process was going to be difficult, but he had a far bigger problem to worry about.

Their clasped hands hadn't escaped Alex Winter's notice. What Alex noticed, he reported. What he reported, went straight to Mycroft. Damage control was required. As they stepped toward the lift, Sherlock let Vivian move ahead of him slightly, then smoothly slipped his hand from hers and placed it on her lower back, guiding her inside. He followed after her, palm helpfully offering up a plethora of sensory input: the heat of Vivian's skin through the soft silk of her gown, the smooth shift of muscle, strong and supple, beneath it, the elegant dip of her back and how at home his hand felt there. It then proceeded to offer him a flurry of suggestions on where it could go next, downward being first on its list. Ignoring it, he turned around in the lift to face Alex.

"I trust you know what floor, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Someone will meet you there." The man's gaze flicked downward once again, then bounced back up, expression sharper than before.

Sherlock bit back a curse. He was still _touching_ Vivian. He hadn't removed his hand. Helping her out of the cab and assisting her on the short walk inside could have been explained away as the chivalrous act of a gentleman. The same went for the guiding hand on her back. But Sherlock had ruined it all by keeping his bloody hand there. He'd meant to drop it, had planned to let it fall the moment he turned in the lift, but he'd utterly failed to do so. Keeping it there implied an intimacy between them that didn't exist. But dropping it now would only double the damage that had been done. Sherlock's gaze darted to the fire extinguisher on the wall. It was tempting to grab it and knock Alex Winter unconscious. If he failed to obscure the last four minutes of the man's memory, at least he'd delay his report.

Alex's mouth quirked.

Sherlock scowled and jabbed the button to close the doors. The man had caught his train of thought and been amused by it. Spies were annoying.

"Have a lovely evening," Alex said and dropped his hand.

"We will," Sherlock assured him just before the doors shushed closed.

Sherlock selected the seventy-third floor. Vivian stared at the button-covered wall. "How many floors are there?"

It took him a moment before he remembered she couldn't read the numbers. "Ninety-five."

" _Ninety-five?_ " Her mouth dropped open. "Where are we, The bloody Shard?"

His lips curved. "You'll see."

"You already said that." Her eyes narrowed. "Please tell me you're not taking me to see a dead body."

"I'm not taking you to see a dead body."

Rather than reassure her, the obedient recitation did the opposite. Her eyes closed as if she were trying to draw strength from an empty well. "Oh my God. There's more than one, isn't there?"

Amusement bubbled up inside him. He couldn't help it. He snickered.

Her eyes snapped open, and she clutched at his arm. "Seriously, Sherlock. This isn't funny. How many are there? Two? Three? A baker's dozen?"

He laughed then, delighted she had no idea what was in store for her. "You'll see."

Anticipation over her reaction set his heart pounding like the start of a serial killer case. He'd thought surprising Vivian would be fun, but he'd severely underestimated how much. No, this...this was _brilliant_. He grinned at her.

Still gripping his arm, she turned and faced forward, expression bleak. "I should have called my own cab," she muttered. "I would have been home by now, eating-"

The lift doors opened.

Her jaw unhinged.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think, dear reader? I know the cliff-hanger wasn't very nice of me, but I hope you still liked the chapter. Are you enjoying Sherlock & Vivian's interaction? :-)


	17. Chapter 17

A crystal chandelier rained down soft, golden light onto a modest-sized, but luxuriously appointed lounge. Sumptuous sofas and plush leather chairs huddled together as if in secretive conference. Eight tables designed to seat two dotted the outskirts of the lounge. The generous space between each ensured a private dining experience. Cream-dipped tulips edged with plumb graced the surface of every linen-draped table, while the haunting strains of a cello hummed through the air. Just like with an orchestral piece, every single detail harmonized together to perfectly invoke a rich and inviting atmosphere. However, none of that was responsible for shocking Vivian into awe-struck silence.

No, one detail in particular elevated this opulent dining space from merely impressive to beyond compare: the outer walls were all made of glass.

Lady London sprawled out before them in all her nighttime splendor. And splendid she was, indeed. Streets and structures lush with life, she winked and sparkled, beckoning them closer so as to admire her more thoroughly.

Sherlock shifted Vivian's hand from where it still clutched his arm to the crook of his elbow. He took a step forward, but she didn't budge. The lift doors threatened to close, and Sherlock raised a hand to stop them. "Vivian."

Wide eyes jerked to his.

She didn't look upset, merely surprised by this unexpected turn of events, but he needed to know for sure. "Do you still want to go home?"

Her mouth clicked shut. A rapid shake of the head.

Relief filled him. Good. His plan could continue. "We should exit the lift, then." This time, when he moved forward, she did too.

A slender man in a tux approached and bowed. "Mr. Holmes, Madam. Welcome to Haven, the hidden jewel of The Shard. My name is Peter Walsh, and I'll be taking care of you this evening. If you'd please follow me." He guided them through the empty lounge, past the line of vacant dining tables and toward one of the massive windows.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up as their destination became clear. "You're not bothered by heights, are you?" he asked her.

"No, why do you-" Vivan's voice cut off as Peter opened a seamless door in the window pane. It appeared to open out into thin air, but it was only an illusion. A series of steps led down to a balcony completely enclosed in glass, all of it crystal clear except for the floor, which was covered in soft, soothing strokes of grey. Sherlock doubted anyone would have walked onto it if it had been translucent. The effect would have been far too dizzying. Despite Vivian's reply to the contrary, her hand tightened on his elbow as they navigated the stairs and walked out onto the balcony.

It contained a single table set for two. The pair of chairs were positioned side-by-side instead of face-to-face, offering an unimpeded view of the captivating vista before them. Sherlock pulled out a chair for Vivian. Once she was settled, he handed Peter his coat and took the other. It wasn't until he was seated that Sherlock realized how close the chairs were. It was as if the seating designer had been so horrified over the rudeness of not facing one's dinner partner that he'd decided to join them at the hip in compensation. Sherlock's entire left side, from shoulder to knee, was pressed against Vivian. The heat of her body was already bleeding through his clothes and sending curling tendrils of warmth through him. It was distracting.

He considered moving his chair over, but then his right half would stick out from beneath the table. He'd look ridiculous. He couldn't have that. His left side, perfectly content with the situation and thus not to be trusted, emphatically agreed and applauded his good sense. Vivian didn't appear bothered by the contact, but it was likely she hadn't noticed yet. She was distracted too, but not by him. Lips parted, eyes round with wonder, her gaze panned across the glittering city skyline, slowly taking it all in. The view upstairs had been phenomenal, but here -- here it was unparalleled.

Here, they floated on their own solitary cloud, high above London.

Somewhere private: check. Sophisticated: check. An excellent view of the city: double-check. Full marks and then some. Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft's competitiveness was evident even when holding up his end of the bargain. He'd not only met Sherlock's demands, but exceeded them -- the show-off. For once though, the thought was without rancor. Vivian's wide-eyed wonder had Sherlock almost appreciative of Mycroft's high standards and attention to detail. Almost. Sherlock hadn't completely lost his mind.

Peter ghosted back with two bottles of wine. He poured them a glass from each. "I believe you'll find both of these vintages pleasing to the palate, but should you desire something else, do let me know. I'll return shortly." With a nod, he disappeared.

Vivian blinked down at the wine, then turned to Sherlock, brow furrowed. "So, is someone meeting you here to discuss a case or something?"

Sherlock stared. Vivian didn't know why they were here. How was that possible? He'd thought she'd understood the moment the lift doors opened. That was why he'd asked if-- Oh. She'd still assumed they were here for a case, and yet, without any promise of food, she'd still agreed to stay. He found himself smiling. "No. There's no case involved, at least not directly."

"I don't understand. What's going on?"

He gestured, encompassing the table and the view. "This is me repaying you for your assistance this evening."

Vivian went utterly still, then a hesitant hope rose in her eyes. One hand reached out and gripped his arm. "Are we... _eating_ here?" The words were almost a whisper, as if she were afraid some spell would be broken if she spoke at normal volume.

He gave a low chuckle. "It would be poor repayment if I failed to feed you. I interrupted your meal, after all."

A smile dawned across Vivian's face, then quickly brightened until she all but incandesced with joy. Sherlock's blood turned effervescent in his veins. It felt like he'd consumed both bottles of wine in one go. No one had ever looked at him with such unadulterated delight before. His brain immediately categorized the expression as Very Good, with the added mental footnote to reproduce said expression as often as possible.

"If this is how you repay me, you're more than welcome to interrupt me whenever you want, Sherlock Holmes."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"Just tell me where to sign."

Sherlock chuckled, well aware Vivian meant every word. She really was far too easy to manipulate when it came to food.  
Her gaze shifted back to the view, and she shook her head. "How on earth did you manage all this?"

"You're not the only one full of surprises."

A gleeful laugh. "I guess not."

Sherlock eyed both bottles of wine, then chose the full-bodied red Peter had poured. He swirled it in the glass, then breathed it in. He'd made a study of alcohol and all its various flavors, not in search of gastronomic pleasure, of course, but on account of it being one of the most common vehicles for poison. This wine promised to be sweet and robust, with hints of cherry, black pepper, and vanilla. He picked up the matching glass opposite Vivian and handed it to her. "Here. You'll prefer this one."

Both eyebrows rose. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Simple. The wine shares the same vanilla undertones as your lipstick."

Vivian fumbled the glass, almost dropping it, and gaped at him in shock. That's when Sherlock's brain caught up with his tongue. The only way he could have known the flavor of her lipstick was if he'd tasted it. The only way he could have tasted it was if he'd licked the far side of his mouth after their encounter in the electrical closet. _Deliberately_.

Oh God. Sherlock searched the enclosed balcony for a hidden window he could fling himself out of, but there wasn't any. Of course, he'd already jumped off a building before. It wouldn't have the same dramatic impact a second time. Perhaps there was a butter knife he could fall on. Thankfully, he was saved from having to work out a suitable suicide alternative by Peter's timely return with their first course.

Peter set two small saucers before them. A notch in the side allowed a spoon to balance within, cradling a bite-sized piece of food. Sherlock hoped there was more than that. Like a wheelbarrow full. Vivian was famished.

"This is the beginning of a multi-sensory journey," Peter said. "Please take your time and savor the experience." He stepped away.

Vivian settled her napkin into her lap, then picked up the spoon, attention rapt. Sherlock's humiliating faux paux had been forgotten in light of the food. He'd never been more grateful for a meal in his entire life. If he were a praying man, he might have given thanks.

Vivian slipped the spoon into her mouth and closed her eyes. Sherlock watched her, far more interested in her reaction than trying it himself. A quick succession of expressions flashed across her face, but they were so fast Sherlock couldn't tell whether they were positive or negative. An uncharacteristic silence reigned while she consumed the morsel. Perhaps she didn't like it.

Vivian's eyes opened, and she smiled at him. "It's delicious."

"But apparently not delicious enough to moan over." Maybe he should have taken her to Tamarind. She'd certainly been vocal in her appreciation of the food there.

Her cheeks went pink. "No, that's not it. The food's perfect. It's just I'm -- I'm trying not to do that anymore."

"What? Why?" he demanded.

She shrugged, shoulder sliding against his and reached for her wine glass. "The way I respond to food...it's not, well...normal."

"So? Normal is boring." Sherlock found himself deeply affronted that Vivian would even consider suppressing such a vital part of her personality. "You adore a good meal. I adore a good murder. Who cares what anyone else thinks?"

"I suppose you're right." She took a sip of wine, not sounding the least bit convinced.

"Of course I'm right." He scowled. Clearly someone had recently criticized Vivian's enthusiasm toward food. Sherlock wanted to track them down and throttle them. "People are so steeped in mediocrity, any hint of passion sends them into a tizzy of pretentious indignation and spluttering bluster. They're all idiots. Don't censor yourself around them, least of all around me. I certainly don't have any delicate sensibilities to offend. But even if I did, it wouldn't matter." He pressed his point home, tone firm. "I don't scare easily. Enjoy your food. You won't frighten me."

Vivian's smile, which had reappeared during the course of his impromptu speech, grew all the wider. Her eyes narrowed playfully. "Is that a challenge?"

Sherlock dropped his napkin into his lap with a flourish. "Consider the gauntlet thrown, Ms. Walker."

She stuck her nose in the air. "Prepare to be terrified, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock chuckled, and she did too. A distant part of him marveled over how he could be so thoroughly entertained sitting at a dinner table in a posh restaurant. Something told him his enjoyment had very little to do with the setting and far more to do with the woman beside him. The errant thought sent a trickle of unease through him.

"Go on then. It's your turn." Vivian nodded at his saucer.

Sherlock shook his head and slid it over to her. "You have it."

"Why? Don't you want to try it?" she asked, expression bewildered.

"Food really isn't my area."

She stared at him like he'd spoken Swahili. "Food is everyone's area. Just like oxygen."

"It's not mine."

"Yes, it is. You eat food. I've seen you."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course I eat food. It's just not the same for me as it is for you." He waved a hand at the plate. "This is wasted on me."

A soft, incredulous laugh. "For once, I think you're selling yourself short."

"I'm really not. I honestly don't understand the appeal of it all. To me, food is merely fuel for transport. If I could take a pill and be done with it, I would." Sherlock braced himself for her horrified reaction. Food was Vivian's faith -- he'd essentially just insulted her God.

Instead of gasping in dismay, Vivian cocked her head to the side and studied him for a long moment. Finally, her mouth quirked. "I don't scare easily either."

A tense knot inside Sherlock, one he hadn't even known was there, relaxed at her words. He cast her an appraising look as if he were judging the truth of her statement. "Hmmm...I suppose not. You wouldn't be sitting here, seventy-three stories above London if that were the case."

"Exactly." She slid the saucer back over to him. "Meals like this are meant to be shared, Sherlock. I'll feel weird if I'm the only one eating."

"Fine. God forbid you feel weird." He gave in and picked up the spoon. The small morsel looked rather like an odd-shaped ravioli. Not exactly impressive. When he bit into it, a rich liquid burst out of it and flooded his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, and it disappeared.

Vivian looked at him expectantly. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What did you think?"

"I agreed to eat it, not provide a lengthy commentary."

A snicker. "Believe me, I'm not expecting that. Just tell me whether you liked it or not."

He shrugged, at a loss. "I don't feel strongly either way. Sweet, salty, bitter, sour: food is pretty much all the same to me."

She smiled, seemingly unfazed. "Right then. Let's see what else Peter has in store for us."

As if saying his name had conjured him, Peter reappeared with another course and took their previous one away. Like before, Vivian ate first, then Sherlock. She expressed her enjoyment, he his indifference.

The sixth dish was a white sphere. Vivian popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes. A hum of pleasure filled the enclosed balcony. Sherlock breathed an inward sigh of relief. _Finally_. He'd been concerned his lack of reaction was detracting from her experience. The hum turned into a gratified groan. He grinned. Evidently not. He watched her savor it, her very posture a picture of bliss. Was that-? It was. Gooseflesh had broken out on her arms.

"Oh my God. That was amazing." Her eyes popped open, face glowing brighter than all the city lights combined. "That was chilled peach juice and champagne encased in white chocolate. Pure heaven."

Sherlock pushed his plate in front of her. "You're taking this one," he said, tone adamant. "Don't argue."

She didn't.

The pattern continued until the dishes began to blur together: grilled lily flowers with pickled jackfruit; octopus with green cardamom tapioca butter; sea urchin with garlic and mint; bacon with butterscotch, apple, and thyme; and white asparagus puree with caramelized bone marrow.

Following their fifteenth course, Vivian released a happy sigh. "I finally feel human again."

"Good. I was concerned you might go on a 'hangry' rampage and decimate all of London."

"You managed to tame the beast." A cheeky smile. "For now."

"How reassuring." By this time, the heat from Vivian's body had spread entirely through his own. Her satisfaction with her meal must have been infectious too. Sherlock felt warm and content like a summer day, replete with dappled sunshine and the hypnotic hum of bees.

Vivian nudged him with her shoulder. "I have a theory about you."

A host of swallows joined the summer day and swooped down into his stomach. "Oh?"

"Yes. Would you mind if I conducted an experiment on you to see if I'm right?"

The birds careened past his spleen, then rollicked through his ribcage. Vivian wanted to experiment on him. He eyed her. "That depends. What's your hypothesis?"

"I believe you're perfectly capable of appreciating food."

He snorted. "You're mad." They were only on their second bottle of wine, and he'd been drinking it too, so he knew it wasn't the alcohol talking.

"No -- listen. The potential is there. It's just hidden beneath other stimuli." She waved her fork. "I just need to remove some...extraneous variables."

One swallow settled near his heart and began to sing. Vivian was speaking his language. The scientist in him was intrigued. "Am I free to withdraw my participation during the experiment if I desire?"

"Of course." A teasing grin. "I'm not going to tie you up or anything. That's another experiment entirely."

That quickly, the summer day shifted to a sultry night. A night that begged for bared skin and a shared swim beneath the stars. Overly warm now, Sherlock reached for his water glass. "In that case, you have my consent."

Vivian's face lit up. "Brilliant. I'll need Peter's help though."

The server materialized beside her. "How may I be of assistance?"

She blinked at him. "Are you magic?"

"Yes, Madam. It's a prerequisite for the job."

"Well, you're very good at it." She dimpled. "May I whisper in your ear?"

Peter didn't bat an eyelash at the odd request. "Of course." He bent his head to her level. She murmured something Sherlock couldn't hear, and Peter nodded. "I'll be back shortly."

Anticipation curled at Sherlock's insides. It was tempting to try and draw more information out of Vivian regarding the experiment, but he forced himself to wait. Whatever she had in mind was bound to be interesting.

Peter returned with a tray. On it sat a folded black napkin and a platter covered by a dome. He set it on the table before vanishing again. Due to the nature of the experiment, Sherlock knew there had to be food of some kind on the platter, but other than that, he was completely in the dark -- a novel experience for him. His heart rate accelerated. This was like a game and a case and a science experiment all rolled into one. _Fun_. He quirked an eyebrow at Vivian. "Well?"

"Well, first I need to face you properly." She twisted in her seat and shifted her knees toward him. Since there wasn't any space between them to be begin with, the only place for her tucked knees to go was on top of him -- specifically his thigh. Like the rest of his body, it was quite pleased to make Vivian's acquaintance and promptly requested Sherlock bring her closer. Like he would do that. If she were any closer, she'd be in his lap. Sherlock's thigh didn't see the problem. Yes, well, his thigh was an idiot. Thankfully, it wasn't his brain.

It would have been far more logical to simply pull their chairs back from the table and turn them to face one another, but Sherlock didn't dare suggest it. He would never interfere with another scientist's experiment. Instead, he stretched his arm out along the back of Vivian's chair and turned his torso so he could face her fully.

"There. That's better," she said, smiling in satisfaction. They were so close now, he could feel her breath as she spoke. "Now, back to my hypothesis. Like I said before, I believe you're perfectly capable of appreciating food. I just think you're missing it. The sensory input doesn't get a chance to register. There's so much going on up here-" She reached up and gently brushed his temple with her fingertips. "-that you can't take it all in."

Sensation sparked down his spine. Vivian's fingers lingered there for a few glorious seconds, then slowly dropped away. As her hand fell, his head tilted slightly into her touch, an unconscious reflex he chose not to examine. Her palm glided along his cheek in a fleeting caress. His vertebrae turned molten. While he couldn't vouch for his sense of taste, his sense of touch certainly appeared to be in full working order.

She continued on with her theory. "You were born with a visual eidetic memory. Consequently, your predominant method of experiencing the world is through your eyes. I want to see if I can bring your sense of taste to the forefront. Give it a chance to shine."

"How?"

"Simple." She picked up the black napkin and smiled. "I'm going to blindfold you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, let me apologize for the briefness of this chapter. I actually AM sorry this time. I work for an accountant, and since it's tax season, my life has been rather crazy. I fully intended to close with the end of the experiment, not the beginning. Sadly, I didn't have enough time to polish up the rest of it for today. So, I'm afraid you'll have to savor this short one instead. On the bright side, next week's chapter will be longer. 
> 
> *grins hopefully* Did you still enjoy it?


	18. Another Author Note

Hi there,

I'm terribly sorry! I promise I'm still writing and working away. The next chapter is going to be late again. Blame it on Sherlock. He's being quite difficult. I'm hoping to post a chapter sometime this week. Work is absolutely mad right now, but tax season ends April 18th, so my regular posting schedule will definitely resume on April 22nd. I hope you'll find this story worth the wait. There's so much more to come, I promise!

Thank you for being so kind and supportive. Your encouragement means the world to me. *hugs*  

Love,

JD

 


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock stared down at the napkin in Vivian’s hands. Of all the ways he’d imagined this experiment going, blindfolding him hadn’t been one of them. His stomach tensed, though he didn’t know why. “That isn’t necessary.”

“Yes, it is. You’ll peek otherwise.”

“I will not,” he said, affronted. ”I’m a scientist. I would never sabotage an experiment.”

Vivian looked like she might argue, but then her expression cleared. One alabaster shoulder exposed by the Grecian cut of her gown rose and fell. “Alright. We won’t use it then.” She set the napkin back down on the table.

Sherlock smiled, pleased with himself and the evident success of the meal. A well-fed Vivian was a cooperative Vivian. He was definitely going to carry around sweets from now on. And perhaps some sort of emergency food kit. It might save him from being throttled at some point.

She lifted one brow. “If you open your eyes though, you’ll have to wear it. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Then let’s continue. Please close your eyes.”

Sherlock complied. He expected to hear the clink of the platter’s lid, but it didn’t come. All was quiet. Thirty seconds passed. His heart rate picked up. What was Vivian doing? Staring at him? He continued counting. One hundred twenty seconds. Still nothing. Understanding flashed through him. This was a test. Vivian wanted to see if he’d break the silence, open his eyes, or interrupt the experiment somehow. An internal snort. She was going to be disappointed. No one could out-stubborn him. Not even Mycroft.

Forty-five seconds later, he felt the weight of her knees shift against his thigh. She was moving. The sweet fragrance of jasmine grew stronger, and heat suddenly bathed his face like he’d approached an open flame. _Vivian_. Sherlock’s heart rate accelerated further. She hadn’t moved toward the table. She’d moved toward _him_. The tiny hairs on his face prickled. The tip of his nose tingled. If he leaned forward the slightest bit, he was certain he’d touch her. Strange. He couldn’t feel nor hear her breath. Frowning, he strained his ears for --

“Boo.” A puff of air against his lips.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Vivian was only a few centimeters away, a devilish glint in her gaze. She’d been holding her breath. Clever. His attention dropped to her mouth. Her lipstick was a different shade than the one she’d bestowed upon him in the electrical closet. This one was the deep pink of an English rose. He bet it was a different flavor as well. Pity he couldn’t prove his theory. In the name of science, of course.

Vivian drew back, grinning like a vixen who’d lured a hunter into a bog. “So, about that blindfold.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. It was impossible to be irritated with her when she’d played the game so well. “Touché.” He held out a hand for the napkin.

“No, no. Allow me,” she said, all sweetness and sunshine. The vixen had vanished, replaced by an innocent fawn.

Sherlock wasn’t fooled. Helping him was the last thing on Vivian’s mind. She wanted to rub her victory in his face. Or at least tie it around his head. “You’re too kind,” he drawled, tone sardonic.

A smirk broke through her candied countenance. “That’s me.”

After folding the napkin and smoothing out any wrinkles, she brought it up over his eyes. Even with them open, the dark material fully blocked his vision. There’d be no peeking this time, involuntary or otherwise. He felt Vivian lean into him, elbows brushing his shoulders as she reached around him to knot the two ends behind his head. He inhaled sharply, still unaccustomed to the rush brought on by her close proximity.

“Is it too tight?” she asked, tone concerned. Wine-kissed breath caressed his ear.

Sparks sizzled across Sherlock’s skin. Suddenly he was back in the electrical closet at Cubic with Vivian’s mouth on his jaw and her body pressed against his, lost in sensation.

“Sherlock?” Her fingers slipped between the blindfold and his hair, checking it herself.

The gentle touch only served to fuel the fire rising in his veins. Somehow he forced his brain to focus through the heat. “No, it’s...good.” The word rumbled out of him like gravel at a rock quarry.

Her fingers stilled. “Oh. That’s, um...good,” she echoed, voice faint.

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut beneath the blindfold. At least he wasn’t alone in his incoherence. This _thing_ that simmered between them -- all taut and warm and golden -- was a shared madness. Vivian pulled away, and the fire dimmed to a more manageable level.

He almost sighed in relief, but then his stomach clenched again like when he’d first seen the blindfold, but worse. His body didn’t stop there. A cascade of physical reactions followed: elevated pulse; increased blood pressure; shallow respiration. This was nothing like what he’d experienced a few seconds ago with Vivian. What the hell was wrong with him? He gripped the back of her chair to try and anchor himself. It didn’t work. Moisture formed between his palm and the wood of the chair. He was _sweating_. There was something vaguely familiar about the sensation sweeping through him. He’d felt this before. But when? Where? His mind raced, trying to place it.

Recognition sent a trickle of ice down Sherlock’s spine.

_Baskerville._

No. He wasn’t afraid. He _wasn’t_. He’d meant what he’d said to Vivian. He didn’t scare easily. He didn’t scare at all. Except when under the influence of a chemical weapon designed to induce terror and hallucinations. But this wasn’t Baskerville. This was only a shadow of that horror. However, the chemical foundation was still the same and just as destructive. Adrenaline and cortisol. The two hormones were currently flooding his system, priming his body for fight or flight. The question was why. He wasn’t under any sort of threat. Certainly not from Vivian. He had no intention of fighting her, and the idea of running from her was so ridiculous as to be laughable. Yet his body continued to defy logic. Nerves jangling, he sat stiff and still, every cell on high alert.

"Hey,” Vivian said softly, knees settling back against his thigh. “I'm going to feed you, not execute you.”

_Wonderful_. She’d noticed the tension radiating from him. Of course, people seventy-three stories below them had probably noticed. Sherlock felt like an overcranked Jack-in-the-box, ready to explode at any second.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Yes,” he bit out, trying to bring his heart rate and breathing under control.

A long pause. Even the air around him seemed skeptical of the answer.

“Look, it’s okay. We don’t have to do this.” Vivian shifted, and something brushed his temple.

He flung a hand up and captured hers, pressing it flat against the side of his head to stop her from removing the blindfold. “Don’t. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I am,” Sherlock insisted. “Let’s continue.” He released her, then returned his grip to the back of the chair. He expected Vivian to drop her hand as well. She didn't. Instead, she slowly, almost hesitantly, slid her hand down the side of his cheek and cradled his jaw. Every nerve ending in Sherlock’s body ignited. Her palm was like a brand against his skin -- skin that was now even more sensitive without his sight. She paused there, as if waiting to see what he would do. He didn’t move; he barely breathed.

“You know,” she said conversationally. “If you clench your jaw any tighter, you’ll break your teeth, and then the only thing I’ll be able to feed you is Jello.” Her fingers began to move in small circles, gently massaging the rigid muscle.

It felt...better than good.

Heat spread through him, and an altogether different sort of tension took over his body. Vivian’s touch was both soothing and stimulating, both burn and balm. That shouldn’t have been possible, but of course it was with _her_. She was chaos personified. The physical laws of the universe crumbled at her touch. And evidently, so did every single one of Sherlock’s walls. Walls that were there for a reason, although he couldn’t quite recall what that reason was at the moment. A distant part of him demanded he sever the contact and rebuild his armor, but it was a very distant part. The darkness from the blindfold lent a certain unreality to the moment. It was almost as if he were fooling his brain. If he couldn’t see Vivian touching him, then somehow it didn’t count. Like a child who puts his hands over his face during a game of hide and seek and thinks no one else can see him. Sherlock knew it was illogical. For once, he didn’t care.

“I should have known you’d hate being blindfolded,” Vivian said, continuing to stroke his jaw. “You’re not the sort of man who gives up control easily.”

Sherlock blinked. _Control_. That was his problem, the reason for his discomfort. “I’ve never given up control in my life,” he admitted. A lilting Welsh whisper in the back of his mind. _Except once. Or don’t you remember, ymennydd bach?_ Sherlock hurled the voice into his purgatory room so hard his temples throbbed. The fear from earlier resurfaced, eclipsing the comfort of Vivian’s touch. His breathing grew shallow again. He felt exposed, vulnerable. She’d teased him about tying him up earlier. That would have been preferable to this. With the loss of his vision, his greatest strength had been locked away. He was left completely at her mercy.

Vivian’s hand stilled on his jaw. “Trust me.”

Just like that, she handed back the loaded gun Sherlock had given her outside the cab when he’d made the same request. He could say no. Wound her. Shatter this moment and let it cut her before it could him. He should. His stomach tightened. He took a steadying breath. “Alright.” With his agreement, the remaining tension bled out of him, and he felt himself relax into her touch.

Her hand lingered there for a moment, then with a final caress, dropped away. “There. That’s better.”

His body disagreed. It told him to clench his jaw again to see if she’d massage it a second time. Or better yet, if he tightened every muscle, maybe she’d-- He fractured the thought before it could go any further. This was getting ridiculous. He needed to focus and prepare for the experiment ahead or else he was going to make a fool of himself. Vivian’s fingers curled around his hand where it rested on his knee, and what little focus he’d gathered disintegrated. Right. Nevermind. She picked up his hand and brought it to rest on something both firm and yielding. And very warm. Curious, he spread his fingers out, gathering as much data as possible. Silky material slid like water against his skin. The surface rose and fell like a gentle swell in the ocean. His thumb froze mid-sweep. Vivian had placed his palm on her abdomen.

"Breathe with me, Sherlock." There was a hint of humor in the request.

He understood now. This was familiar ground. He'd done this very thing to her countless times while instructing her in the proper breathing techniques for meditation. Only this time their roles were reversed.

"So...” Sherlock said, voice low and amused. “The student has become the teacher."

Vivian’s abdomen tightened for a split second beneath his palm, and he heard a tiny hitch in her breath. His eyes popped open beneath the blindfold.

“Yes, I think it’s high time I taught you something for once,” she said with a wry laugh.

Sherlock stared blindly into the darkness. She’d just taught him something now, and she didn’t even realize it. Perhaps he’d read her wrong though. Best to double-check to be sure. “Then by all means, carry on, _Professor Walker_.” He deliberately drew out the last two words, sent them curling through the air, low, slow, and smooth.

It happened again. A minor tensing of her abdominal muscles. The slightest catch in her breath.

A wave of startled pleasure and immense satisfaction rolled through him.

_Vivian liked his voice._

Sherlock smiled. He’d known she was attracted to him on some level, but he’d thought it was a nebulous sort of thing for her, indistinct and unformed. He’d never expected anything so...gloriously _specific_. He savored the unexpected, choice bit of knowledge. It was far more delectable than any morsel he could have consumed. This was good. This was _very_ good. Vivian had a weakness where he was concerned. Since he was beginning to suspect he might have a few of his own regarding her, he felt it only fair he know one of hers. He wouldn’t use the knowledge right now though. Oh no. Better to save it for when he needed it the most. His smile widened. He was beginning to enjoy this experiment.

“There’s no smiling in this class, Mr. Holmes,” Vivian said in a pompous, playful tone. “Only breathing.”

“My apologies.” Biting back a chuckle, he quickly schooled his expression, then matched his breath to hers. They fell into sync like a single organism, and everything faded away. He floated there, comfortable and calm. After a moment, her hand, which had been holding his securely against her abdomen, moved away. That's when he heard the clink of the platter.

Wanting to prove to Vivian he wasn’t at a complete disadvantage, Sherlock slipped his hand from her stomach and reached for his fork. Recalling its location from memory was simple enough. Right as his fingers clasped it, it was pulled away from him, and his hand was pushed back onto her abdomen. "I’ll take care of that,” she said. “Just relax. I don't want you distracted by the fork."

The fork? Vivian thought the _fork_ would distract him? Sherlock wanted to laugh. She clearly had no idea of her affect on him. Good. He intended to keep it that way.

“I’m going to offer you a bite of something now. Try to focus on the taste and texture, and remember to breathe,” she said.

“Understood.” He hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed when her theory was disproven. A simple blindfold and a relaxation exercise wasn’t going to magically change how he experienced food. Not after thirty-seven years. Fortunately, Peter hadn’t brought out the final dessert course yet. Once it appeared, Vivian would forget all about the failed experiment.

“Open your mouth, please.”

He did, and something soft landed inside it. Mindful of her instructions, he took a moment to assess the food’s texture. It felt supple, compact, and round. He bit into it. His taste buds exploded. Rich loam, deep, dark, and earthy, burst across his tongue. A low noise of surprise sounded. It took him a second before he realized it had come from him. He swallowed, and the flavor changed, turned smooth, rich, and buttery. It lingered on his tongue, then slowly faded away. Sherlock removed his hand from Vivian’s abdomen, pulled off the blindfold, then stared at her. All he’d had was a single bite. But it’d felt like a revelation.

He kept his voice carefully controlled. “What did you feed me?”

She looked back at him, a _Mona Lisa_ smile on her face. “Did you like it?”

“I…” He licked his lips. She deserved the truth. “Yes. I did.”

Her smile lit up the glass balcony.

“What did you feed me?” he repeated. Surely, this had to be some sort of one-off, an anomaly.

Vivian’s green eyes glowed with satisfaction. “It was the very first thing you tried tonight.” She nodded at a small empty saucer on the table. “Ravioli filled with liquid black truffles and butter.”

Sherlock’s organized world shifted on its axis. He remembered that first bite. It had been completely ordinary, nothing like this one. The breath whooshed out of him. What he'd thought was immutable, his attitude toward food, had just been irrevocably altered. And it was all because of Vivian. Something warm and anticipatory twisted through him as he gazed at her. This woman was neither boring nor predictable. She’d not only challenged a long-held perception of himself, she’d transformed it. She was… “Remarkable,” he murmured.

She dimpled at him. “I knew you had unplumbed depths.”

“How?” he demanded. He couldn’t understand how she’d known something about him when he hadn’t.

“I saw the way you devoured that chocolate croissant at Christmas. It wasn’t out of hunger; you’d already had dinner before I arrived. When you were done, there wasn’t a single crumb left on your plate. An indifferent eater would never do that.”

He blinked. She’d _deduced_ him at Christmas. If she’d chosen a career in law enforcement instead of corporate espionage, she might have given him a run for his money. “Impressive.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Did you just compliment me?”

“No. I told you I don’t do that.”

A smirk. “So, it’s a fact that I’m impressive, then?”

“No, your bit of deductive reasoning was impressive.”

“You think I’m clever,” she sang out, eyes crinkling in delight.

“I’m beginning to question my judgment.”

She laughed, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. They smiled at one another.

Peter appeared. “Are you ready for your final course?”

Sherlock raised a brow at Vivian, and she nodded.

The remnants of the experiment were quickly whisked away, then Peter returned with a large covered plate, nearly as wide as their table. He removed the lid with a flourish.

“Wow,” Vivian breathed.

Their dessert had been painted across the white expanse of the plate like a work of art. Three thick lines of different colored sauces swirled around squares of gleaming chocolate, fresh blueberries, and little mounds of something brown and crumbly. It took Sherlock a second before he made sense of the curving lines. They were actually a fancy script, spelling out the chef’s initials, L.D. Peter pointed at the sauces. “Chocolate, caramel, and cream. The brown bits are peanut butter crumbs.”

Vivian looked up at the man with shining, soulful eyes. “You had me at chocolate.”

Peter smiled. “It’s a pleasure to serve one such as you, Madam. Enjoy.” He bowed and left.

Sherlock watched as Vivian scooped up a chocolate square and slid it through the various sauces. She collected some peanut butter crumbles along the way.

“This would be easier if we had utensils,” Sherlock said. They’d only been left with their napkins.

“No, touching the food is all part of the experience.” She dropped the bedecked piece of chocolate into her mouth. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she let out a soft moan. “Oh yes. I could marry this man.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, amused. “You’d marry the chef? Sight unseen? Just for his cooking skills?”

A wide grin. "I could do a lot worse." She picked up a blueberry and dipped it in the cream sauce. "This man is patient, detail-oriented, creative, and understands the importance of chocolate."

"He's also exceedingly arrogant since he scrawled his initials across our plate."

The additional information didn’t appear to bother her. “He’s earned it." She tapped the plate, expression serious. "If he cooked like this for me every day, I’d let him tattoo his bloody initials on me if he wanted."

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Yes, I would.”

Sherlock shook his head. "That's ridiculous. You're far too easily manipulated when it comes to food."

“Everyone’s got a weakness,” she said, waving a piece of chocolate at him. "Besides, you’re one to talk. Your weakness is puzzles."

"I solve murder cases, not _puzzles_. And I'm not manipulated by them in the least."

An incredulous laugh. "Right. So, you're saying that if some key evidence from, I don’t know, the Jack the Ripper case suddenly came to light, but it was secreted away somewhere, you wouldn't do anything and everything to get your hands on it?"

He smirked. "I wouldn't.”

“You are a big fat, bloody liar.” She punctuated the last word with a poke to his chest.

He caught her hand. “I solved the Jack the Ripper case when I was ten."

"What? Are you serious?" Wide green eyes searched his.

"Yes." Except for a small bit of assistance from Mycroft, Sherlock had put the pieces together on his own. The answer had been both satisfactory and chilling.

"Why is it still unsolved, then?"

"If I'd proclaimed it to the world, it would have caused the killer's descendants, people innocent of any wrongdoing, irreparable harm."

Admiration and respect filled Vivian’s gaze, sending a rush of heat through Sherlock’s body. He felt like he’d been living inside a cold house all his life. The hearth had been there, but it had been dark and empty -- absent of light and warmth. Until now. He approached the fire with cautious hands, still uncertain it was real. “What?” he asked.

"That was very considerate of you," she said quietly.

The appreciation in her tone warmed him even further. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I have my moments.”

Her eyes swept across the glass balcony and glided over the glowing city before returning to his. "You certainly do." Her thumb brushed across his own, leaving a trail of sparks across his skin.

Sherlock realized he still had her hand caught against his chest. Perhaps those moments he’d spoken of were ones of temporary insanity. He carefully released her and reached for his water glass.

Her hand fell back to her lap, and she cocked her head. "Does it bother you at all? That no one knows you've solved it?"

"The guilty party is long dead. It's enough I know who did it."

The beginnings of a smile tugged at her pink lips. "You certainly sound like a puzzle solver to me."

"I'm not."

She was grinning now. "Yes, you are. I'll prove it to you."

"Be my guest."

"Oh, no. Not now. I'm going to do it when you least expect it. It'll be more satisfying that way."

She seemed awfully sure of herself. He studied her, wondering what she had planned.

A chuckle left her. "I haven't even done anything yet, and it's already working."

He arched an eyebrow in question.

"You're already obsessing and trying to figure me out. It's not going to work."

"Why not?"

She flashed him an enigmatic smile. "I'm a woman."

“Are you?” He ran a critical eye over her. "I hadn't noticed."

"Liar," she said, voice low and warm.

He smiled, not denying the accusation. Doing so would only provoke her to mischief. And who knew what she might do to prove her point? Something reckless, no doubt. His body told him he was a moron and vowed vengeance for the next time he caught a cold.

Looking back down at the dessert plate, Vivian picked up a chocolate square and coated it with caramel. She offered it to him. “Here. I want to see if you like it.”

Curious as well, he accepted it. Closing his eyes, he settled into a light meditative state like he’d done during the experiment. After taking a few deep breaths, he brought the chocolate to his lips and took a bite. A rich sweetness flooded his mouth, steamrolling his senses. Impossible, improbable pleasure crashed through him. It stole his breath and sent shivers down his spine. He understood now why Vivian groaned when she was eating at times. Before he could take another breath, a lance of pain stabbed at his temples. The chocolate slipped from his fingers, and he opened his eyes with a gasp. The flavor flooding his mouth immediately receded, but the pain barely dimmed.

“What’s wrong?” Vivian asked, frowning. She reached out, and her fingers touched his hand.

The pain in Sherlock’s head doubled, and he hissed, flinching away from the contact. “Stay back,” he snapped.

Vivian recoiled like he’d burned her.

Taking in a series of slow, steady breaths, he shut his eyes and retreated from the sensory overload into a deeper meditative state than before. Like he’d hoped, the pain dimmed, however, it didn’t disappear completely. It was still there -- a familiar band of iron around his head. So. He’d thought he could get away with slowly spreading out the time between his pain medication doses. Evidently not. He still hadn’t been able to determine the cause of his headaches. There didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to them. Just now, it had almost looked like the chocolate had triggered an episode and that physical contact with another person somehow worsened it. It didn’t make sense. His head gave a throb. He’d better take a pain pill soon.

Six heartbeats later, he brought himself out of the trance. He could tell something was different. Something had changed. The warmth that had been pressed against his side all evening was gone. He opened his eyes, but kept his head bowed, making use of his peripheral vision. There was a gap between their seats now. A very reasonable gap. The gap one would expect between two dining chairs. So, why did it feel like a chasm? He could hear Vivian breathing. Her breaths were so perfectly measured he knew she had to be forcing them that way. One pale hand, the knuckles bloodless, gripped at her knee, bunching up the deep blue silk of her gown. She was either angry or worried or both. Since he’d snapped at her, he wagered it was the former. Sherlock bit back a sigh. Ending the evening by upsetting her hadn’t been part of his plan. His head throbbed harder, reminding him he needed a pain pill now. Steeling himself, he raised his head.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi loves! I'm terribly sorry for posting this so late. I've not only been dealing with the crazy end of tax season this week, but I also came down with a nasty bug. I may or may not have been under the influence of  various medications while writing this... So, please forgive my lateness, the sub par writing, all my hideous mistakes, and the very unkind cliffhanger. I'm a right mess. *hides under bed*  


	20. Chapter 20

When Sherlock raised his head, Vivian sagged back into her seat and released a long breath. "Thank God. Are you alright?" she asked, green eyes dark with worry.

Sherlock nodded. She didn't appear angry. Maybe that would come later. He slipped the pain pill from his trouser pocket, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed it down with a sip of water. "I had an unexpected headache," he said by way of explanation.

Her brow furrowed. "Like a migraine?"

"No, not quite that debilitating, but still...uncomfortable." His temples throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

"That's terrible." The pinched expression on her face made it look like she was the one in pain. "I'm so sorry."

"What for? It's not as if it's your fault," he said. "They come at random for no reason at all. It's annoying."

"Do you want to go?" she asked, setting her napkin on the table.

Sherlock studied her while taking another sip of water. Did she want to leave? Despite having been at dinner for three hours, he found himself reluctant to bring their evening to a close. "No, not yet. I'd prefer to wait for the pain medication to take effect. I'll be fine in twenty minutes."

There was a pause as she studied him in return. "Alright. As long as you're sure."

"I always am."

"It must be nice to be so certain all the time," she said, tone teasing, then nodded at what remained of their dessert. "Would you like any more?" The way her gaze lingered on the plate, it was obvious she did.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's all yours."

Vivian didn't need to be told twice. She picked up a piece of chocolate, slid it through a line of cream, then took a bite. Her eyes fell shut as she savored it with evident relish. A smile tugged at his mouth. Just watching her enjoy herself was enjoyable. Maybe he needed a brain scan.

"So, have I successfully ruined the chef's initials?" she asked as she piled caramel onto the last square.

"Yes. They're indiscernible now." The sweeping, cursive lines painted across the plate had long-since met their demise at her hand.

"What were they?"

"The letters L and D."

"Hmmm...I wonder what they stand for," she mused. "Larry David? Leonardo Dicaprio?" The names made her snicker for some reason. She popped the treat into her mouth.

"It's for Lucas Dubois," Sherlock said.

Vivian choked and fell into a violent coughing fit, hunching forward in her chair. He reached out and smacked her on the back a few times. "You're supposed to eat the food, not inhale it."

The next two coughs sounded rather like expletives. After a moment, her hacking subsided, and she turned to him. "Did you say Lucas Dubois?" she rasped, face red and eyes watering.

"Yes." Sherlock slid her water over to her.

She took a large swallow, then shook her head. "That's impossible. He has three restaurants to run. There's no way he came here to prepare a meal just for us. The cost would be astronomical."

Sherlock merely looked at her.

Vivian's eyes went huge. "You're serious."

"Yes. I acquired him for the evening."

"You _acquired_ him? He's the godfather of modern cuisine, not -- not a collectible!" she sputtered. Her gaze dropped to their empty dessert plate. "Oh my God. I ate an 18-course meal made by Lucas Dubois." Her voice morphed into an awed whisper. "He touched my _food_."

"I take it you find him impressive," Sherlock said, tone dry. "I hadn't heard of him until this evening."

Vivian goggled at him. "Lucas Dubois has transformed the face of the culinary world. He's an innovative genius, a true prodigy. He's like -- like--" She threw up her hands in a helpless gesture. "--the chef version of you."

A smirk spread across his face. "Oh really?"

The pink in her cheeks darkened, and Sherlock grinned. She'd just used him as a measure for brilliance. "I suppose I should be suitably impressed, then," he said.

A sniff. "Yes, well. You're only ever impressed with yourself, so it was the best comparison I could come up with."

His smile remained. Vivian's attempt at retracting the unintended compliment merely served to confirm it. She liked his voice, _and_ she thought he was brilliant. Sherlock didn't think it was possible to feel anymore pleased. He lifted a hand, and Peter appeared at his side.

"How may I be of service?" Peter asked.

"I'd like a word with the chef."

"Of course. Mr. Dubois will be out shortly." Peter took the empty dessert plate and headed back up the balcony stairs.

Vivian gaped after him, then swung around to face Sherlock. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed.

"Meeting my alter ego," he said, perplexed by her reaction. He'd thought she'd be pleased. "Don't you want an introduction?"

Judging by Vivian's poleaxed expression, the idea that she could actually meet the man hadn't even entered her mind. Her shocked face shifted to one of joy, then just as quickly to horror. She gripped his arm. "Oh God. What am I supposed to say? I don't want to sound stupid."

He cast her a sideways glance. "In that case, you may just want to smile and nod."

A glare. "If I humiliate myself, it's going to be your fault." Her fingers tightened on his forearm, and she gnawed at her lower lip.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. She really _was_ concerned. Strange. He'd always thought of her as so confident in herself. "You needn't worry. I'm certain he'll find you charming company."

"Right," she said, expression wry. "And why is that?" Her lashes lowered, but not quickly enough to hide the flash of vulnerability in her gaze.

The smart remark he'd prepared turned to ash on his tongue. Vivian cared what he thought. His opinion mattered, just like hers did to him. The air left his lungs in a slow exhalation. Considering the number of truths he'd learned about her tonight, perhaps it was time she learned one of his. "You made the point yourself."

Her gaze returned to his, brows drawing together. "What do you mean?"

"In your description of Lucas Dubois. You made a very specific comparison. What was it?"

"I said he was the chef version of you."

"Yes. And I just told you I was certain he would find you charming company."

"So?"

She wasn't following. He clarified. "Think of it as a logic problem: Lucas Dubois is the chef version of Sherlock Holmes. If he's certain to find you charming company, what can you conclude about Sherlock Holmes?"

There was a pause, then a slow smile widened across her face. " _You_ think I'm charming company."

"No."

Her smile faltered.

"Only when you've eaten," he stated emphatically.

Vivian's smile reappeared, and she threw her head back and laughed.

Just then, a man wearing a white chef jacket approached their table with slow, graceless steps. Peter followed behind him like a dog herding a reluctant sheep. Lucas Dubois had wild silver hair, serious eyes, and the stiff body language of someone who hadn't wanted to be disturbed. Vivian beamed up at him, still alight with delight over their conversation. Lucas blinked as if dazzled, and the sullen cant to his mouth softened slightly. Two seconds. That was all it had taken for Vivian Walker to disarm the man, and she hadn't even been trying. If Lucas wasn't completely charmed in the next two minutes, Sherlock would eat his deerstalker.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle, Monsieur," Lucas said with a thick French accent.

"Hello," Vivian whispered, green eyes wide.

Peter moved to stand beside Lucas and cleared his throat. "My apologies, but Mr. Dubois speaks very little English. He insists he's far too busy cooking to learn it. I'm happy to translate for you though."

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock said. He addressed the chef. "Mon compagnon est amoureux de votre cuisine."

Surprise flickered across Lucas' face, briefly disrupting his solemn countenance. "Je suis content de l'entendre."

Vivian gaped at Sherlock. "You speak French?"

"No, Pig-Latin," he said, secretly pleased to have stolen her attention away from the chef.

She kicked him in the foot. "What did you tell him?"

"I said you're in love with his cooking, and he said he's glad to hear that. What else would you like me to say?"

The anxiety from before returned. "I...I don't know."

He held her gaze. "I know you enjoyed every course. Tell me why."

She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, then let it out. When she opened them, she appeared far more composed. "Our meal was like a journey through the elements. It began with earth: truffles, mushrooms, and asparagus. Then it shifted to water: the octopus and sea urchin. Wind was in the airy puffed pastry cups and the brioche foam. After that, fire, in the curried carrots and gingered pears." Her expression turned earnest as if she thought he wouldn't believe her. "There was even a hint of heat in the chocolate sauce. Chili powder, I think."

While none of that had occurred to Sherlock at the time, there was an underlying truth to her words. Their meal hadn't been just a series of flavors. Something deeper had tied it all together. Sherlock relayed her observations to the chef, curious to see his response.

Lucas stared at Vivian for a long moment. Face grave, he extended his hand to her, palm up. When she placed her hand in his, he brushed a kiss across her knuckles and murmured a few fervent lines of French. "Very few have correctly discerned my vision. It's an honor to have cooked for you," Sherlock translated for him.

Vivian's mouth fell open. "I'm the one who's honored," she protested. "Your food is phenomenal; it's the best I've ever had."

The edges of Lucas' mouth curved upward faintly. For a man this reserved, it was the equivalent of a broad grin. "You have exquisite taste, Mademoiselle."

She laughed, and the city lights sparkled in her eyes.

Taking a break from translating for Vivian, Sherlock smirked at Lucas. "I don't know about that. During dessert, she said she wanted to marry you. Perhaps she's had too much wine."

A flash of straight, white teeth. "If I weren't married, I'd steal her away from you."

"You could try." The words lashed out like an ice-encrusted whip. Sherlock frowned, surprised by himself. The harsh retort had been an instinctive, knee-jerk reaction -- ungoverned by thought. Well, the man _had_ pricked his pride by implying he wouldn't be up to the challenge, not that there was one. And of course, Vivian was incapable of being "stolen" from him because she didn't belong to him in the first place.

"Good." Lucas gave him an approving nod. "You _should_ be playing for keeps with this one."

Sherlock hurried to correct the older man. "You misunderstand. I'm not participating at all."

A chiding chuckle. "Foolish boy. You've already placed yourself on the board, or you wouldn't be here."

"This is dinner, not chess," Sherlock said.

"They're one and the same." Lucas' dark eyes gleamed. "You've made your move. Now you wait for hers."

Before Sherlock could form a reply, Vivian poked him in the ribs. "Hey, I don't speak French, remember? What are you two on about?"

Fortunately for Sherlock, Peter had left after he'd realized he wasn't needed, or else he might have translated their conversation for Vivian. He met her curious gaze. "I was informing Lucas of your marriage proposal."

Red suffused her face. "You _what_?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but he's already married. He did imply he'd be interested if that weren't the case though."

The blush spread down her neck. "Oh," she squeaked, darting a glance at the chef. Lucas' sober expression broke, and he smiled. Gratification and embarrassment warred across Vivian's face, before the former finally won. She picked up her mobile and eyed Sherlock hopefully. "Do you think he'd let me take a photo with him?"

Five photographs and an autographed napkin later, Sherlock and Vivian were once again alone on the balcony. Vivian had gone quiet after Lucas had left, and Sherlock wondered if she was tired. It _was_ half past one in the morning. He wasn't tired, but most people didn't sleep as little as he did. Vivian folded up the napkin like it was a holy relic and squeezed it into her clutch. There was a faint tremor to her hand.

Sherlock frowned. "Are you--"

Before he could finish, a red, white, and blue blur crashed into him.

The air left his lungs. He had a lapful of Vivian Walker.

Sherlock's brain went into overdrive, overwhelmed by the sensory input: the intoxicating scent of her perfume; the skin-warmed silk of her dress; the feminine curves pressed against his body, so different from his own; the smooth slide of her cheek against his. Naturally, it took him a moment before his ear realized there was anything else to process beyond the feel of her breath.   

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she was whispering over and over.

Relief swept through him. Vivian was _happy_. Not upset like he'd initially thought. Sherlock wound an arm around her lower back, preventing her from toppling off him. It wouldn't be a good end to their evening if she injured herself. With his free hand, he moved to pat her shoulder like he'd done with Mrs. Hudson in the past, but realized his mistake too late. His palm met naked flesh. Electricity zinged through his veins and set his head buzzing. Sherlock's palm decided it was quite fond of this style of dress. Taking advantage of his discombobulated state, it began to brush across her bare shoulder in a slow, exploratory stroke, intent on mapping out this new, fascinating terrain. The silkiness of her skin made her dress feel like sandpaper in comparison. There really should be a law against having skin this inviting to touch. Nowhere near satisfied with a single pass, his palm drifted back up to the top of her shoulder and repeated the movement. Vivian was still murmuring words of gratitude into his ear. If he didn't do something soon, she might never stop. His body thought that was a fine idea.

Uncertain how to halt the litany, but knowing he must, Sherlock forced his hand to still and put his mouth to her ear. "You're welcome." This time, the low rumble of his voice was completely unintentional.

Vivian fell silent like he'd pressed a mute button. A shiver ran through her, and gooseflesh broke out beneath his palm. He pressed his eyes shut, momentarily overcome. How could he feel both powerful and powerless at the same time?

She drew back just enough to meet his gaze, then cringed a bit. "Sorry for um, throwing myself at you." Despite the apology and her implied embarrassment, she made no move to extract herself from his lap.

"It's...fine," Sherlock said. While he'd loosened his hold on her, he did nothing to encourage nor discourage her current seating arrangement. In fact, he found himself quite incapable of moving at all. His body had mutinied. He wasn't going anywhere, not anytime soon. The building would have to crumble beneath him first.

Vivian shook her head. "I just can't believe I got to meet Lucas Dubois and eat a meal prepared by him -- with you -- in this fabulous place." Her eyes went bright, and she blinked a few times. "This is the nicest thing anyone has done for me in a long time," she said softly.

While he'd expected her to be pleased with his plan, he had no idea it would mean this much to her. "So, I take it I'm forgiven for interrupting your dinner with Victor Trevor?" he inquired lightly.

She cocked her head to the side and squinted at him in exaggerated puzzlement. "Victor _who_?"

Sherlock chuckled, and the dark creature inside him gave a contented hum. He'd made amends with Vivian and thwarted Victor's plans. Mission accomplished.

"Oh, before we leave, we need to take a selfie." Still on his lap, she twisted around and fetched her mobile from the table.

"A selfie?" Incredulity filled his tone. He'd never taken one in his life.

"Yes, we need one for Scott and Miranda's Facebook page. We haven't posted any photographs of us together yet." She held out her phone to him, the camera already on. "Here, you've got longer arms."

Resigned to the necessity of promoting their fake relationship, Sherlock accepted it without complaint. Arm around her waist, he held the phone out, framing the two of them on the screen. When she beamed at the camera, Sherlock pushed the button. "There." He offered it back to her.

She refused to take it. "Sherlock, you're not even smiling. You look like you're at a funeral."

"Scott doesn't smile in photographs."

"Oh, come on. Not even when he's on a date with his new girlfriend?"

"No, not even then." He pressed the phone into her resisting hand. He'd concede to taking a selfie, but he drew the line at looking like a fool.

An eyeroll. "You're ridiculous, you know that right?" The smile playing around her lips told him she wasn't really annoyed.

"I disagree. _Selfies_ are ridiculous."

"Alright, I'll grant you that. How's your head?" She peered at him as if in search of any signs of discomfort. She wouldn't find any. The pain medication had done its job.

"I'm fine now."

"Good." Smiling, she gave his chest a pat, then pulled away from him and rose to her feet. He had to bully his arm into letting her go. It twitched in discontent.

"Ready to leave?" he asked.

She nodded, and Peter appeared with his coat.

"Thank you so much for the lovely service," Vivian said to their waiter after he escorted them to the elevator. "I do appreciate it. I know we've kept you up awfully late."

"Not to worry, Madam. I'm magic, remember?" Peter winked, and the elevator doors closed on her laughter.

Vivian's hand remained tucked in Sherlock's elbow as they exited The Shard. The building towered behind them, a glowing beacon in the darkness. Sherlock looked around but didn't see any cabs parked along the desolate street. That made sense in light of the late, or rather early, hour. "Shall I call for a cab?" Sherlock asked.

A nearby street light glinted off Vivian's hair as she lifted her face toward the cloudless sky. "It's so nice out. Can we walk for a bit, and then call if we don't find one?"

"Of course." He often roamed the abandoned avenues of London when he couldn't sleep. There was something strangely soothing about it. During the day, the city positively brimmed over with life, every space crammed full to bursting. At night, it was different. The city still pulsed with life, but it was hidden beneath layers of concrete, glass, and steel -- safely contained. Or at least mostly contained. Secrets stalked the streets; lies lurked in shadows; illicit meetings, whispered greetings, and the sound of running feet. Sometimes London slumbered in peace, other times she woke to blood-soaked sheets. Sherlock tended to her as best he could then, hunting down those who caused harm. She repaid him by giving him a thrilling chase and endless work. People lived. People died. Through it all, the city thrived. And so did Sherlock.

He and Vivian were halfway down the road when something stirred to life within the darkness. Or rather three somethings.

They were being followed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,
> 
> I'm very sorry for the late chapter again. I hate not posting them in a timely fashion for you. I assure you, it's frustrating for us both! My parole officer -- I mean beta reader -- has suggested I take a break from posting to give myself some time to get a number of chapters finished, so I can get ahead. I think her idea has merit. While I know it leaves all of you waiting a while for a new chapter, once I start posting again, it should be much more consistent. So, that's what I'm going to do. The next chapter won't be posted until Saturday, June 10th. I hope all of you will stick around until then. There's so much in store for Sherlock, Vivian, and John! I'm dying to share it all with you. This story is near and dear to my heart. I promise you it will be finished and finished well.
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued support, kindness, and encouragement! I love you all!
> 
> Love,
> 
> JD


	21. Author Note

Hello Sweeties,

You're probably wondering why you're reading a letter from me instead of the next chapter. I had big plans to get ahead and present you with new, shiny words for your enjoyment. Those plans went poof. I've been feeling exhausted for quite a while, and I didn't understand why. I've felt like I had mono or something. Ten days after I posted the last chapter, I solved the mystery: I'm pregnant! *cue shocked gasps*

My husband and I are ecstatic. My body is not. Ugh. I'm perpetually nauseated and exhausted. It's all I can do to accomplish the bare minimum of life's requirements. I'm managing to make it to work, but it's very difficult. As a result, my writing is currently on the back burner. I'm hoping I'll get some of my energy back in the second trimester. 

I know you must be getting very tired of my excuses, and I understand if you want to come back when the story is finished in its entirety. There's nothing worse than an unfinished story. I will continue to update chapters as I can, but I can't make any promises as far as a posting schedule goes. 

Please know this story is near and dear to my heart. I will finish it; it just may take me a while. Thank you for being so supportive and encouraging of my writing. I adore each and every one of you! 

Love,

J.D. 


	22. Chapter 22

A businessman in a charcoal suit kept pace with them from across the street. Mobile phone to his ear, he shouted angrily about a deal gone wrong. Two shop fronts behind the man stood a woman dressed entirely in black. Smoke snaked through the air, the glowing red tip of her cigarette the only hint of color around her. She sauntered forward in a lazy fashion as if she had no particular destination in mind. From behind Sherlock and Vivian came a whistling tune. It was an aimless, meandering melody, reminiscent of jazz. Sherlock hated jazz. A quick glance behind him, masked as interest in a shop window, revealed a young man dressed in a city waste management uniform, hands in his pockets, cap low on his head.

All three of them were good. Very good. Sherlock might not have recognized them for what they were except for one crucial detail: They all walked far too quietly. His heart rate picked up, mind racing to figure out the best course of action.

Vivian stumbled, body pitching forward. Since her hand was still tucked into his elbow, she careened into him instead of the pavement. Sherlock caught her against his chest, hands firm on her waist.

"Whoops," she said with a laugh. Smiling, she clutched at the lapels of his Belstaff coat and regained her balance. They were stopped in the shadows, just outside the golden circle of the next streetlight. She wobbled slightly and grimaced. "Damn. I think I broke my heel." Still tucked close against him, she slipped one shoe off and cradled it between them. Sherlock eyed it, then her. The heel was perfectly intact.

"We have company," Vivian whispered.

Sherlock nodded, feeling only the faintest flicker of surprise she'd noticed something most people wouldn't. Perhaps she'd learned the trick of spotting danger from her self-defense instructor, if she in fact had one. He still wasn't sure whether he believed her story or not. Regardless, someone had trained her and trained her well. Another piece to add to the puzzle that was Vivian Walker.

Two of their pursuers had paused along with them, dawdling, while the businessman continued walking forward. They were being flanked.

"Perhaps you should choose better footwear," Sherlock said loudly, continuing their conversation for the benefit of their audience. "Am I going to have to carry you?"

"I doubt you could. I ate far too much at dinner." She made a twisting motion, and the heel popped off, converting it into a flat. She did the same to the other one and dropped both ends into her clutch. Handy. That would certainly make it easier for her to move more quickly.

"What do they want?" she murmured, slipping her shoes back on.

"I doubt it's tea and conversation." If they'd been sent to kill them, they would have already struck. So, they would only use force if necessary. That meant this was a retrieval. Only someone very powerful would... Suspicion rose like a noxious fume inside Sherlock's mind, and his nostrils flared.

A sleek, dark sedan appeared at the street corner in confirmation.

 _Mycroft_.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Alex Winter must have made his report, and now his brother had  _questions_. Sherlock had expected an interrogation after he returned to 221B, not now. They had a rule about not interfering with one another while in public settings with people. Mycroft had been the one to propose it in the first place, no doubt concerned about his precious reputation. And yet, here he was flagrantly breaking it. Indignation burned through Sherlock, and he glared at the tinted black passenger window. There was no way he and Vivian were getting inside that car. Not tonight. Not ever.

He took off his coat and held it out to her. "Put this on." Her fair skin, blue gown, and red hair acted like a magnet for every particle of light. Even in the shadows, she glowed. For his plan to work, they needed to blend into the darkness. It was fortunate he wasn't wearing a white dress shirt beneath his suit jacket; he'd gone with sable. As soon as Vivian finished pulling his coat on, he buttoned it and flipped the coat collar up. That helped. If he'd been wearing a scarf, he would have wrapped it around her head. It would have to do.

Sherlock shot a glance over his shoulder. The young man behind them had halted in front of a closed restaurant, face lit up by his mobile. His body language was relaxed, the edges of his mouth curved. He thought he and his team were clever, that they had their prey right where they wanted them. He was wrong.

No one knew London like Sherlock. And his city always provided him with a way out.

"What's the plan?" Vivian asked.

Sherlock caught her hand. "Run!"

He yanked her to the right and into a hidden path which separated the two old buildings beside them. The tight space wasn't actually meant for people. It was an architectural flaw, one now used to their benefit. Sherlock ran with his shoulders twisted at an angle so he could fit. Vivian followed behind him, her hand tight in his. He felt his suit jacket snag on something sharp. He kept moving, and the fabric ripped free. The air smelled damp and dank. He didn't wonder why for long. The harsh sound of their feet pelting across stone turned to splashing. The ends of his trousers grew wet and cold, clinging to his skin. The passage darkened and narrowed further, slowing their angled run to a frustrating, sideways quickstep. Twice, he had to turn his head to the side to avoid scraping his nose on the uneven stone wall. A few of their pursuers would try to go around to the other side of the building to try and catch them there. What they didn't realize was that he didn't have any intention of going all the way through. His outstretched hand finally came into contact with cold, hard metal.

Sherlock guided Vivian's palm to it. "Climb."

"Right." A breathless laugh. "Will there be swimming next?" Her shoes scraped against the rungs of the ladder as she ascended it blindly. She paused. "Someone's coming."

The smaller framed young man had likely been the one to enter the passageway after them. "I'll take care of him."

"Fine, but if I don't see you in five minutes, I'm coming back for you." She scrambled up the ladder, and the sounds of her ascent faded away.

A moment later, the splashing of water echoed down the passageway. Sherlock waited, braced himself, and then a heavy weight slammed into his side. A grunt sounded, and the weight staggered back. The man's headlong rush told Sherlock their pursuer hadn't expected to catch up to them quite yet.

"You and your guest need to come with me, Mr. Holmes," the young man commanded.

"No, we don't."

"I'd hate for things to become impolite."

Amusement welled up inside Sherlock. Was he actually trying to intimidate him? This one was greener than Irish moss if he thought that was going to work. "What's your name, agent?"

"My name doesn't matter. You know my employer. That should be more than enough to ensure your compliance." The man's bewildered tone told Sherlock volumes. He was not only new, but startlingly innocent as well. There was still hope for this one.

"I do know who you work for," Sherlock said, "and I pity you. You have no idea what you're in for. Do yourself a favor and listen to me very carefully. This is obviously your first op. You were no doubt honored when you were chosen to lead it. Did you think you were special? You're not. This is a test -- one you are certain to fail. You can't win this fight. I'm smarter than you. I'm stronger than you. I'm better than you. In every way. You haven't got a chance. But you can choose how you fail and where it takes you. One way leads to freedom, the other to a lifetime of thankless servitude."

A long pause. The drip, drip, drip, of a leaking pipe filled the sudden silence. "I don't understand."

"You stand at a crossroads. Cease this farce of a fight. Tell your compatriots you couldn't find us. Tomorrow you'll be shipped off to another department and placed under a superior who won't treat you like an expendable pawn. It'll be the luckiest day of your life. Or you can annoy me, and I'll knock you out, handcuff you to the ladder, and make off with your boots. The evidence of your resistance will secure your position, and you'll never get another chance to leave."

Silence reigned again. He heard the man's feet shift.

"Well?" Sherlock said.  
An arm lashed out. Sherlock blocked it, warned by the rustle of clothing and rush of air. Gripping the younger man's shoulder to confirm his height and position, Sherlock stepped forward and slammed his palm into the man's solar plexus. The breath whooshed out of him in a strangled cry, and he sagged, barely staying on his feet. Still gripping his shoulder, Sherlock struck again, this time to the side of the man's neck, just above his collarbone. Like flipping a switch, the other man collapsed boneless to the ground, out cold.

Sherlock sighed. Another loyal minion welcomed into the ranks. How disappointing. Scowling over the stupidity of youth, he removed the handcuffs from the inside the young man's uniform and cuffed him to the ladder. He tossed the handcuff key into the darkness and heard it ping off the wall. Next, he tugged off the man's boots, then proceeded up the ladder. When he reached the top, he found Vivian waiting for him a short distance away. After the deep darkness of the passage, the ambient light from the city almost made it seem like midday.

"Took you long enough," Vivian said. "I was about to come back down."

"No need. He wanted to have a chat before I knocked him out."

Her brows knit together. "Did you nick his boots?"

"Yes. He annoyed me." Sherlock chucked them across the rooftop in opposite directions. They bounced and tumbled across the cement before rolling to a stop.

"Right. So, where to next?" A gust of wind whipped through her hair, sending the red tendrils dancing. She made a smart profile in the half-light with his Belstaff coat on, feet spaced apart, body braced for action. Sherlock blinked, certain his vision was failing him. He took a step closer. He'd just hauled her down a dark, dank alley. Unidentifiable muck stained her shoes and ankles. A streak of dirt crossed one cheekbone. And she was  _smiling_.

Warmth cascaded through Sherlock like he'd been doused with liquid sunshine. Vivian wasn't upset. In fact, she looked rather the opposite. His fingers twitched, dissatisfied. They wanted more than just visual confirmation of her pleasure. They itched to trace the curving line of her lips, to feel the physical proof of her smile. He froze at the foreign sensation and dug his fingernails into his palm. The prickling pain grounded him, and the compulsion faded.

"What?" she asked, shifting beneath his stare.

Sherlock studied her a moment longer, then shook his head. "You really  _are_  unusual." He'd told her so before, back at  _Brackenwood_ , when she'd made a quip about him tossing her into the muddy pond as being the most fun she'd had all week. He hadn't known what to make of her then. He still didn't now. This woman not only liked trouble, she  _was_  trouble. A warning bell tolled in the back of his mind, but it was a vague, distant sound, and he ignored it.

Vivian's smile widened into a grin. "You say such lovely things."

His mobile chimed. He pulled it out of his trouser pocket.

_You're being childish, brother mine. -MH_

Sherlock bit back a snort. More like the other way around. He powered his phone off without replying. "Turn your mobile off," he told Vivian.

"What? Why?"

"To prevent us from being tracked by GPS."

She shot him a horrified look, then quickly turned hers off. "Who the hell is after us?"

"No one you want to meet."

"Thanks. I gathered that already."

"Good. We need to move." Without any warning, Sherlock broke into a run across the rooftop. While they really did need to leave, running also prevented more questions. The longer he could put off telling Vivian who was actually after them, the better. Slim though it was, there was still a chance he could figure out a way to prevent her from meeting Mycroft, or at the very least buy them some time. Interrogations with Mycroft Holmes were never pleasant.

Five seconds later, Vivian was at his side. He increased his speed, testing her, but she matched him stride-for-stride. Their feet beat a rapid rhythm against the stone. Air rushed in and out of Sherlock's lungs. His heart pounded, muscles tensing. They approached the end of the roof. Neither of them slowed. They leapt. The red brick of the other rooftop rose to meet them. They hit the ground and continued running. Two rows of air conditioning units loomed ahead. Sherlock darted through them, vaulted over a metal railing, then pelted down a set of stairs which led to a lower tier. Vivian followed, then came alongside him as the space opened up, but instead of remaining there, she cut in front of him. There was nothing blocking her path. Why would she--? Vivian glanced over her shoulder at him, and the city lights glinted off a mocking grin. She sped ahead, laughter and jasmine in her wake. An exhilarating bolt of energy shot through Sherlock, and he bared his teeth in a fierce grin of his own. Oh, it was  _on_. The sky, the lights, Lady London herself -- dimmed. His entire focus narrowed onto the flash of red hair in front of him. Vivian wasn't going to beat him. Not this time.

She jumped onto the next rooftop, and he raced after her. Breaths measured, muscles burning, he sprinted forward, eating up the distance between them. His hand darted out, fingertips grazing her back. Vivian shrieked and lunged away from him. Sherlock chuckled and kept at her heels. She was fast. To win, he'd need to find a way to get in front of her. Tall spindly shadows loomed ahead. Scaffolding. A wall his height ran parallel to the bones of the new structure, separating the roof into two parts. Oh yes. That could work. He ran at an angle, and using his forward momentum scrambled up the wall. Vivian was already bobbing and weaving through the scaffolding. That would slow her down. He pelted across the narrow path of the wall. Five strides later, he was even with her. She was so focused on navigating the maze of metal rods, she didn't even realize he was there. He grinned and moved faster. They were nearing the end of the scaffolding. Sherlock reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wrapped it around his hand. Breaking ahead of her, he leapt across the small divide and caught a thick vertical bar. He wrapped himself around it, then loosened his hold. He shot down the bar in a controlled fall, slowing his descent with his hand and knees. When his feet struck the ground, he straightened and released the bar, smug in the knowledge he'd -- Vivian burst out of the shadows, and slammed into his chest.

"Ooomph!" The air rushed out of Sherlock's lungs, and he landed on the ground, arms and legs tangled with Vivian's. Unable to move, he simply lay there, gasping for air. Vivian panted into his neck, her breath a hot caress against his skin. His pulse accelerated, slowing his recovery. Clenching his eyes shut, he sucked in a lungful of air and gathered his wits. Satisfaction hummed through him. He smirked and turned his head until his mouth brushed her ear. "I won."

Vivian braced her hands on his chest and sat up, expression outraged. "You did not!"

"Yes, I did. I got ahead of you."

"So? Iknocked you down.  _You're_  the loser."

"Don't be ridiculous. That's not in the rules for racing."

A snort. "We're not even using the same playbook, Sherlock, so this doesn't count." She rose to her feet, then offered him her hand.

He took it, stood, and dusted himself off. "Then we need a rematch. One with clearly defined rules."

Amusement sparkled in her eyes. "That sounds delightful." She pointed to the next rooftop. "First one to reach the other side wins. Is that clear enough for you?"

"Crystal." He smiled. "I look forward to beating you again."

"Ha! You're funny when you're losing."

They stood side-by-side, the scaffolding behind them, feet pointed toward their goal.

"On three." Sherlock said.

She nodded and crouched slightly. "One."

"Two."

"Three!"

They shot forward, shoulders brushing, arms pumping. This was going to be close. Whoever won, it wouldn't be by much. Regardless, the thought of losing was repugnant. He moved faster. If memory served him right, which it always did, the next rooftop was higher than this one. And the gap between buildings wider. Sherlock's mind flashed back to the barn and their chase through the hay bales. Vivian had failed to reach the other side then. His grip had slipped on her blood-slickened hand, and she'd fallen. This time, there was nothing soft to break her fall. Only unforgiving pavement. One misstep would kill her. Sherlock's chest tightened painfully at the thought. The rooftop was ending. They had seconds. Knowing it was too late to stop, he reached out and caught Vivian's hand, threading his fingers through hers. Electricity sparked up his arm. They jumped. Time slowed. As they arced through the air, he saw their shadows pass over five homeless men gathered around a fire in a metal bin. A blur of upturned faces, orange flames, and smoke. Sherlock's feet slammed onto the side of the rooftop, knees bending to cushion the impact, Vivian at his side. Relief and adrenaline rolled through him. Chest heaving with the need for more oxygen, he tugged her off the ledge and onto the main rooftop. Sweat dampened the back of his neck, and he sucked in breath after breath. Fortunately, Vivian's breathing was just as shallow as his own.

She arched an eyebrow at him, still panting. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Who won?"

Sherlock blinked. He had no idea. "Don't you know?" he asked, buying himself time to replay the details of their landing.

"No." She looked away. "I was distracted."

"By what?"

Her gaze dropped, and he followed it down to their clasped hands. He hadn't forgotten he was still touching her. His central nervous system wouldn't allow him to. Every nerve-ending in his body was fixated on the point of contact. Vivian's hand shifted against his own, and Sherlock's breath caught. This was far different than the other times he'd taken her hand. With their fingers linked like this, everything was  _closer_. The hot press of her palm felt shockingly intimate against his own...almost like a kiss. Not that he had any experience with kissing, but there had to be similarities, hadn't there? His gaze rose to her lips. They were moving.

"It was the smoke."

Sherlock stared at her, lost. "What?"

"I was distracted by the smoke. It got in my eyes, and I couldn't see who landed first."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. The smoke was blowing in the opposite direction from them. The same way it had been during their jump. The beginnings of a smile tugged at his mouth.

"What?"

He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn't help himself. "You're certain you weren't distracted by...something else?" Holding her gaze, he swept his thumb across her knuckle.

A sharp intake of breath.

Sherlock smirked.

Vivian's eyes narrowed, and her thumb slid on top of his, stilling any further movement. "Nothing comes to mind. Although there's a chance I was blinded by your massive ego."

"I've earned every kilometer of it."

"Is that so?" She lifted her chin. "Prove it, then. Who won?"

He hesitated.

Triumph paraded across her face. "You don't even know, do you?"

"No. I didn't see who landed first either. I had the same trouble as you."

"Trouble?"

He shot her a sideways glance. "With the  _smoke_."

"Oh," she breathed, lashes fluttering in surprise. She ducked her head, and a wry smile slowly spread across her face. "We must have, um, very sensitive eyes or something."

"Yes. Or something."

Her cheeks went pink, and Sherlock bit back a chuckle. Teasing Vivian Walker was fun.

She cleared her throat. "It's a bit of a shame though. I was looking forward to celebrating my victory. I guess we'll never know who won."

"I wouldn't say that." Sherlock carefully extracted his hand from hers, then turned and leaned over the ledge. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted down at the group of five homeless men, "Did you see who landed first?"

Heads bobbed, and a chorus of yeses followed.

Sherlock pointed at Vivian. "Raise your hand if she landed first."

Two hands rose.

Sherlock smirked at her, then looked back at the group. "Raise your hand if  _I_  did."

Two hands rose.

"Hang on. You all have to vote." Sherlock jabbed a finger at the bearded man who'd abstained. "You there! Who landed first?"

The man stumbled back and let out a high, manic cry, amber bottle falling from his hand. "They flew! They flew!" he cried. He began to flap his arms like a bird, then took off down the alleyway in a zig-zagging run.

Silence fell.

"Well," Sherlock said, nonplussed. "That didn't work."

A snicker sounded, and he looked over at Vivian. "What?"

She grinned at him. "We flew."

His lips twitched, and then they both burst into laughter. It stole his breath, twisted at his insides, and forced his arm across his stomach. Overcome with giggles, Vivian grabbed hold of him for balance. The reverberations of her laughter only added to his own, and Sherlock collapsed onto the ledge, dragging her down with him. They leaned against one another, cackling like a pair of mad hens. That intoxicated homeless man clearly wasn't the barmy one. They were.

Their laughter finally died away, and Sherlock released a sigh, abdominal muscles sore. Vivian wiped at her eyes. "Right. Well, it looks like we'll have to call this one a draw."

"I suppose I can afford to be generous."

"Why is that?" Suspicion filled her tone.

"I won the first round."

She shoved him hard in the shoulder, and he chuckled, unrepentant. After rising to his feet, he gave her a hand up. "We'd best keep moving."

He'd brought them to an old hotel that had been converted into a set of posh flats. They could wait in the lobby for a cab to come pick them up. If all went well, he could get Vivian back to her flat, then hole up in one of his more obscure hiding spots until Mycroft gave up on whatever he was planning. Sherlock knew he was only putting off the inevitable, but he wasn't about to just roll over, especially not when Mycroft had broken the rules. He and Vivian rounded two massive air conditioning units, then both came to an abrupt stop. Sherlock stared, trying to make sense of the strange tableau before him. Steam hung like a lazy cloud over the rooftop. Twenty inflatable, round, blue tubs filled to the brim with people sat in neat rows facing a large screen. Light from a massive projector glinted off wet heads, bare shoulders, and full wine glasses. Water sloshed over the side of one of the tubs as two people squeezed inside one that was already overly full. On the screen, a sailboat was just pulling away from a dock.

"Fezzik, are there rocks ahead?" a voice with a clearly fake Spanish accent asked.

"If there are, we'll all be dead," came a low, but strangely cheerful reply.

"No more rhymes now, I mean it!" cried a man with a strident, whining tone.

Then as if they'd been primed for it, Vivian and the entire audience shouted as one, "Anybody want a peanut?"

Sherlock shook his head at the sheer absurdity it all. He was the only sane one there.

Laughter, cheers, and applause rolled through the crowd, and Vivian grinned. "This film is the best, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know," he said, gaze in search of the most efficient path to the stairwell entrance. "I've never seen it." Wonderful. They'd have to wind through the hot tubs and hordes of people to get to it. He began to make his way toward the door, but Vivian blocked his path.

"Please tell me you're joking," she said.

"If I say yes, will it end this conversation?"

She flung a hand at the screen. "How have you not seen The Princess Bride? It's a cult classic!"

"Yes, what a travesty I've missed out on something so ridiculous." He stepped around her and continued walking.

"It  _is_  a travesty," she said in a hushed voice, catching up with him. Despite it being a futile effort, she hunched down, trying to avoid blocking anyone's view of the screen. Sherlock didn't bother. Whispering apologies, Vivian hurried forward, now equally as eager as he was to get through the crowd. He held the stairwell door open and ushered her through. It was blessedly empty. When she moved toward the lift, he waved her toward the stairs. "This way."

"I still can't believe you haven't seen it," she said as they began their descent.

"Are you still going on about that film?"

"Yes, because it's brilliant. If you gave it a chance, I know you'd enjoy it."

He opened his mouth to argue, but paused. In light of her recognizing in him the potential to appreciate food, there was a slight chance she was right. "Be that as it may, I prefer not to waste my time watching films."

"Having fun isn't a waste of time." She stopped on the landing and frowned up at the corner wall.

"What is it?"

"I swear that camera just moved."

Sherlock muttered a curse. Mycroft had found them. "We need to go  _now_." He grabbed her hand, and they began to run down the stairs. They were two floors away from the ground level when the door on the landing behind them opened. In strode the businessman in the charcoal suit.

"Good morning," the man said, smiling like he'd just doubled his profit on a stock sale.

"It was until you walked in," Sherlock said.

A barking laugh. "I was told you were funny, but I didn't really believe it."

"Oh yes. I'm hilarious."

The ground level door opened, and the woman in black entered. She nodded up at the man. "Eric."

"Katarina," he said, with a grin. "I've found our missing friends."

"I can see that." She looked at her watch. "If we wrap this up quickly and get our report in, we should still be able to make our breakfast reservation at The Wolseley."

Vivian leaned in close to Sherlock. "Their Eggs Benedict is fantastic," she whispered.

He shook his head. Only Vivian would be thinking about food right now.

"Excellent," Eric said. He turned his attention back to them, expression pleased. "Now, if the two of you wouldn't mind coming with us, we'd greatly appreciate it."  
"Funny," Sherlock said. "We'd greatly appreciate it if you'd leave us alone."

"That's not going to happen, Mr. Holmes."

"Your scenario isn't either." The tension in the stairwell ratcheted up a notch, and Sherlock glanced over at Vivian, trying to judge how she was faring. She'd kept a cool head so far, but not everyone could remain collected once a confrontation turned violent. Most people froze. Others ran. A small percentage fought back. Of that percentage, an even smaller number survived. The body could be trained to defend itself, but the key to victory was in the mind. Emotion was the enemy. Fear, anger, aggression, even the more positive emotions like the heady rush of danger and the thrill of the fight could spell doom for a fighter. Vivian had undergone physical training, but had she been prepared mentally as well? He'd find out shortly.

Vivian unbuttoned his Belstaff coat, which she still had on. After removing it, she hung it neatly over the railing, pulled her hair back with a tie, then slipped her shoes off, setting them out of the way. Eric and Katarina shared a mystified glance. They had no idea what she was up to.

"Right. Does anyone have a preference?" Vivian asked.

"Preference?" Eric asked, brows rising.

"For opponent," she said, smiling brightly up at him. "We're both very good."

"Well, I--I.." Eric sputtered a moment, caught off guard by her blasé attitude.

Katarina shrugged, gaze gone watchful. Sherlock could tell she wasn't sure whether Vivian was bluffing or not. The two agents knew to be wary of Sherlock, but Vivian was a wild card.

Sherlock nodded at Vivian. "Lady's choice."

"How gallant of you." She swept an assessing gaze over Eric, then studied Katarina.

Who would she choose? Eric was Sherlock's height, but bigger boned and broader in the shoulder. Judging by the way he was already balanced on the balls of his feet, he preferred boxing. Where Eric hummed with energy, Katarina was still. She'd slunk into the room so silently, Sherlock wouldn't have known she'd entered if not for the movement of door. She preferred martial arts, probably aikido.

"You can take him," Vivian said, nodding at Eric. "I'll take the Dread Pirate Roberta."

Eric's barking laugh echoed down the stairwell.

Katarina glared. "Shut it, Eric."

"You do wear a lot of black, Kat."

"I said shut it."

Sherlock shot a questioning glance at Vivian.

She looked pained. "You  _really_  need to see The Princess Bride," she said, then descended the stairs toward Katarina.

"If I'm the Dread Pirate, then you must be an R.O.U.S.," Katarina said to Vivian as they faced off, tone scathing.

"Now, that's rude. I was trying to be nice. Maybe I should have called you Buttercup instead. You certainly appear to lack agency."

Katarina's scowl deepened, and Sherlock's esteem for Vivian rose. No punches had been thrown, but she'd already begun the fight. She was needling her opponent, searching for a weakness to exploit, and she'd found one. Clever. He forced himself to look away. Vivian could take care of herself. He had his own adversary to face. Perhaps if he finished early, he could catch the tail end of her fight.

Sherlock walked up to the landing where Eric waited for him, then smiled. "Shall we begin?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I hope all of you are doing well. Thank you for being so patient with me. I'm finally feeling human again. The second trimester is much more tolerable! Please let me know if you enjoyed this chapter. I hope it was worth the wait! In addition to The Princess Bride references, there are two other TV/Film Easter Eggs in here. Let me know if you find them. :-)


	23. Chapter 23

Eric returned Sherlock’s smile, then settled into a defensive stance, fists raised. “With haste, please. I don’t want to miss breakfast.”

Sherlock mirrored him, and they began to circle. “Breakfast already? It’s not even 3am.”

“Is it? We keep odd hours.”

“I didn’t realize The Wolseley served food that early.” Sherlock stepped forward and sent out an experimental jab.

Eric’s broad frame jerked back, barely avoiding the hit. “Perk of the job.”

“Hmm. I prefer my freedom.”

“Freedom is an illusion.” Eric sidestepped another jab. “Everyone serves something, be it a person, organization, or ideal.”

“I serve no one.”

An amused chuckle. “You can’t possibly believe that. You serve London just as I do.” Eric’s chin rose, revealing the smug slash of his mouth. “You’re less free than you think.”

Sherlock took full advantage of the opening and struck. His fist slammed into the other man’s jaw with a satisfying thud. The force of it reverberated through his knuckles and up his arm.

Eric staggered back a few steps, then shook his head like a dog flinging off water. He bared his teeth. “Not bad. You pack a stronger punch than I expected.”

“And you have an iron chin,” Sherlock said. “You’re also a swarmer who’s pretending to be an out boxer.” The man’s build had been the first clue; his ability to withstand the knockout blow merely confirmed it.

“I thought I’d change things up a bit,” Eric said, backing away again as Sherlock stalked toward him. “Keep things fresh.”

“You're lying. You said you don’t want to miss breakfast, but you refuse to engage, even going so far as to adopt a fighting style that doesn't suit you. The question is: Why?”

A frustrated cry rang out from the ground floor. "Get back here!" Vivian yelled. A quick glance revealed Katarina dancing out of Vivian’s reach.

Understanding flared. They were doing it on purpose. Instead of taking the risk of an uncertain fight, the two agents had chosen to delay the altercation in exchange for certain victory. A victory determined by sheer numbers. They were stalling for reinforcements. And Mycroft.

Sherlock spun away from Eric and sprinted to the opposite wall. "Cover your ears," he shouted at Vivian. Without waiting to see if she complied, he pulled the fire alarm.

An ear piercing siren tore through the stairwell. The shrill, merciless sound drilled into Sherlock's brain, setting his teeth on edge. He rushed toward the stairs. If it was uncomfortable for him, it had to be excruciating for Vivian. Eric intercepted him, no longer smiling. He lunged at Sherlock, fists flying. There was no hesitancy in him now. Sherlock threw himself back to avoid the flurry of blows. A swarmer used rapid, powerful punches to overwhelm an opponent. Their weakness lay in their heavier build and shorter reach. Sherlock feinted left, then slipped past him, landing a sharp jab to the kidney. Eric grunted. He twisted to face Sherlock, then drove his shoulder into Sherlock's chest and bore him to the ground. For the second time that evening, Sherlock’s breath was knocked from his lungs. He much preferred the first instance. For one thing, Vivian smelled a great deal better than Eric, and another, she hadn’t been trying to smash his face in. Lightning-fire blows rained down on Sherlock. He blocked them with his forearms. One slipped past his elbow and glanced off his cheek. Pain flared across the spot.

Sherlock scowled, ire rising. That was going to leave a mark. It was time he returned the favor four-fold. Going against all instinct, he leaned up into Eric’s oncoming punches and pulled him into a tight embrace. Keeping the man close denied him from the space and leverage to hit him with any power. Snaking his right arm between them, Sherlock braced his forearm against the side of Eric’s neck. He applied pressure, forcing the man’s head to the side. At the same time, he threw his own body in the same direction. Where the head goes, the body follows. Eric’s resistance broke. Sherlock rolled them, landing on top. And now the other man was on the defensive. A chorus of shrieks and screams far above them suddenly rose above the blaring of the siren. Any second now, the stairwells would be flooded with frantic, half-naked hot tub cinema goers. Sherlock had to end this, and end it now. He and Vivian would have only a small window of opportunity to use the chaos of the crowd as a shield for their escape. Sherlock sent a chopping blow at Eric’s throat, but the other man seized his arms in an unrelenting, meaty grip. Option two, then. Messier, but equally as effective. He slammed his forehead into Eric’s nose. Cartilage flattened. Eric gave a strangled cry, and his grip loosened. Sherlock broke his hold and sprinted back over to the fire alarm pull. He opened the clear cupboard door there and removed the fire extinguisher. His peripheral vision caught Eric already stumbling to his feet. It was going to take more than a blow to the jaw or face to knock this man out. Nose a fountain of red, Eric ran at him. Sherlock pulled the pin and aimed the nozzle. He squeezed the lever, and white foam blasted into Eric’s face. Eric’s hands flew to his eyes in reflex, and he sputtered, stumbling to a halt. Sherlock strode forward and slammed the butt of the fire extinguisher into Eric’s stomach. The man doubled over, chin perfectly exposed. Sherlock swung it again, and metal met bone with an audible crunch. Eric’s head snapped back, and he collapsed onto the concrete, unconscious. Finally.

The shrieks and screams above Sherlock grew louder. The crowd was coming. Still gripping the fire extinguisher, he turned to the stairs. Vivian was kneeling on the ground, one hand clutching the side of her head, the other struggling against Katarina. Katarina grappled with her arm, pulling it taut. Light glinted off a band of metal, and in one swift movement, Katarina handcuffed Vivian’s wrist. Sherlock couldn’t allow the woman to finish the job, or worse, cuff Vivian to herself. He needed to distract her somehow, give Vivian a chance to break free. But he was too far away. There was no way he’d make it down there in time, and the fire extinguisher foam wouldn’t reach that far. He tightened his grip on the red metal cylinder in frustration. An idea formed. Perhaps it hadn’t outlived its usefulness just just yet. Bracing the fire extinguisher above one shoulder, he flung it over the railing at Katarina’s back. The liquid inside the canister made it wobble off course, but it still clipped her shoulder. That was all Vivian needed. She ripped the cuff away from Katarina, caught it over her knuckles, then drove the unforgiving metal into the other woman’s face. Katarina went down.

Sherlock smiled. Neither of the agents would be partaking in breakfast, nor any meal for that matter, for some time.

He scooped up his coat and Vivian’s shoes, then hurried down the rest of the stairs. Vivian stumbled to her feet, palms pressed over her ears. Sherlock caught her around the waist and hauled her to the side of the exit. Face a mask of pain, she tried to pull away to escape through the door, but he didn’t let her go. “Wait,” he shouted.

Right then, the mass of dripping, bathing-suited cinema goers streamed down the stairs past them, blubbering and shrieking in their panic. Sherlock waited a beat or two, then inserted himself and Vivian into the chaotic flow. Keeping his head low and Vivian close, he followed the wave of people out of the building. Flashing lights and sirens announced the arrival of two fire trucks and an ambulance. Vivian shuddered beside him, head against his shoulder, and he tightened his grip on her waist, guiding her away from the noise. Her weight against him eased as the distance grew, and the clamor lessened. He paused in front of a bench near the entrance to Kennington Park and gave her back her shoes. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t anyone following them nor any cameras tracking their movements. They had a moment to breathe. For now. Vivian slipped her shoes back on and stood. She still hadn’t said a word.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Her shoulders hunched, and she growled something under her breath.

“Sorry?” Sherlock said, looking her over. Was she still in pain? Had Katarina injured her?

Vivian’s right hand suddenly flew up, and Sherlock jerked back to avoid getting smacked in the face by the free swinging handcuff.

“She  _cuffed_  me. I can’t believe she cuffed me,” Vivian said, green eyes ablaze with outrage. “And that bloody fire alarm! It shouldn’t have incapacitated me like that. I’ve been doing the desensitization program. Why isn’t it working?”

“You can’t expect it to fix everything. That alarm was unpleasant, even for me.” His ears were still ringing.

A seething huff. “You didn’t get handcuffed.”

“No, I got punched in the face.”

Concern chased her frustration away. “You’re hurt?” She stepped forward and tilted his chin up toward the nearest streetlight. Cool fingers probed the area just to the right of his cheekbone. He couldn’t help but flinch, and she let out a hiss. “This needs ice. Come on.” She pulled him down the street, steps purposeful.

“Where are we going?”

“My apartment. I’m going to get you some ice, we’re going to have a cuppa, and then you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on.”

Sherlock sighed. As embarrassing as it would be to tell her who was really after them, she deserved to know the truth. “Fine.”

Vivian led him around to the opposite side of Kennington Park, over to the next street, then headed for a ten-storey, red brick building. Stately letters spelled out Brixton Tower across the front. Warm light shone out from a pair of glass and brass lobby doors. A man wearing a bowler hat and a long, dark coat stood out in silhouette against the light. Sherlock paused, wondering if one of Mycroft’s men had somehow intercepted them, but as they drew closer, his concern dissipated. The man was in his seventies, had a rose pinned to his lapel, and wore a pair of white gloves. He was a 24-hour porter, there to answer the door and provide concierge services. Interesting. Brixton Tower appeared to have more in keeping with a hotel than an apartment complex.

“Hello, Fred,” she said, smiling as the man opened the door.

Bright blue eyes twinkled at them. “Hello, Miss Blythe. Enjoying an early morning constitutional, were we?” He eyed their muck-covered feet and bedraggled state with evident amusement.

She laughed. “You could say that.” A nod at Sherlock. “This is my boyfriend, Scott Sigerson.”

Sherlock blinked, startled by the label. He shouldn’t have been. It made sense for Vivian to use her alias for her temporary place of residence. Less complicated that way. He wondered if he should be acting any differently, now that he was playing her boyfriend. Should he move closer to her? He assessed their body language. She was tucked against his side, arm threaded through his, handcuffed hand hidden in the pocket of his coat. If they were any closer, they’d have difficulty walking. Something told him that would draw more attention rather than less.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sigerson,” Fred said.

Sherlock nodded. “Likewise.”

“You’re welcome to let Scott in anytime, Fred. No need to buzz me,” Vivian said, stepping forward.

“I’ll make a note of it, Miss Blythe.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. She really did trust him. Permission notwithstanding, he still could have broken inside the building and into her apartment if necessary, but he supposed that was besides the point. His lips formed into a pleased smile.

“What’s wrong with Beth?” Vivian asked. Sherlock followed her gaze to a woman wringing her hands behind the lobby desk.

“Politics,” Fred said, grimacing like he’d caught a whiff of rotten cabbage. “Mr. Dickens just up and sold Brixton Tower without any warning at all. Beth said the new owner came barging in this evening, posh as you please, brandishing a pile of paperwork like he was God’s messenger himself. She’s terrified he’s going to fire us all.”

“That’s awful,” Vivian said. “Are you worried?”

Fred adjusted the flower on his lapel and winked. “They’d be fools to let me go. No one knows this building like I do. It’d fall apart without me.”

“That it would,” Vivian said, smiling. “Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help.”

Fred tipped his bowler hat at her. "Will do, love."

With that, they headed through the lobby and into one of the lifts. It opened onto the top floor, revealing a thickly carpeted corridor with four doors. She pulled away from him when they reached the last one on the right, flat #902. The shining handcuff dangling from her slender wrist made for a rather amusing fashion accessory against the blue of her gown. He wasn’t about to tell her that though. Especially not after seeing how hacked off she was about it. At least all he’d need was a hairpin to take care of it for her. She entered a key-code on the door, not bothering to hide it from his view, and the lock clicked open. Sherlock followed her inside, then promptly bumped into her back. She stood frozen in the entryway, spine stiff. Sherlock looked past her. The lights were on. A plush brown carpet partially covered the pale wood floor of a living room. Flames flickered inside a gas fireplace. Above that perched a flat screen television. The rest of the room was completed by a modern style coffee table, wingback chair, and a sofa. And sitting on the sofa like he owned the place was Mycroft Holmes.

“You two took your time,” Mycroft said, not bothering to look up from a thick, open file folder. He perused a few more pages, then raised his head. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Walker. Or should I say Miss Blythe? Your list of aliases is rather lengthy. I could bounce between them if you find going by just one name too tiresome."

"Who are you?" Vivian demanded, striding inside.

"I’m Mycroft Holmes. You’ve no doubt heard of me.”

Sherlock knew she had. He and John had mentioned Mycroft in front of her before, but only ever in passing. None of it had been particularly complimentary. Or detailed. She had no idea what his brother did for a living.

Vivian's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

"Oh, merely some conversation. Think of this as a friendly get-to-know-you chat." Mycroft set the open file folder on the coffee table and folded his hands in his lap.

"Do you normally break into people’s flats for a chat?" Vivian asked, tone tight with anger. Her fingers curled around the hanging handcuff.

Sherlock moved to stand beside her. “No, he usually just bugs them and listens in.”

A thin chuckle. "Not this time, brother mine. I own this building. Purchased it this evening. It's always good to diversify." The placid smile on his face didn’t reach his eyes. Then again, it never did.

Surprise flickered through Sherlock. Mycroft was showing off, flaunting his power. He was usually more subtle than this. “Why are you really here?”

Mycroft didn't spare him a glance, his calculating gaze fixed solely on Vivian. His brother could hide that blaze of predatory intelligence when he wanted. He usually made an effort to do so, often complaining that the brainless masses turned mute and dumb if he didn't. At the moment though, he wasn’t even making an attempt. In fact, it rather appeared like he was doing the opposite. Was he trying to intimidate Vivian? If so, he was going to be gravely disappointed. This woman never responded to danger with fear, but with fury. And Mycroft had invaded her flat and purchased her building. He might as well have poked a surly wolverine with a sharp stick.

"As I said, I'm getting to know Miss Walker. It would behoove you to do likewise," Mycroft replied. "I think you'll find her history quite intriguing." He leaned forward and bent his head over the open folder.

All the color drained from Vivian's face, and her fists clenched. "No. Don't." Strangely enough, the words came out a harsh plea rather than a furious command.

Mycroft didn't listen. "Born in 1984 at Blandford Army Camp in Dorset. Brother drowned at ten years old. Three years later, parents-"

"Stop it," Vivian cried, louder now, almost desperate. Lines of strain bracketed her mouth. Her fists trembled at her sides.

She was afraid. Sherlock had never seen her afraid. Propelled by some primal protective instinct, his feet forced him forward until he stood partially in front of her. "Mycroft," he said, voice low in warning.

But his brother continued on like he wasn't even there. "Her parents took their own lives in a double suicide."

Shock rippled through Sherlock. She'd said her parents had died in a skiing accident. One glance at her agonized expression told him which version was the truth.

The onslaught continued. "An aunt took her in and died six months later from accidental electrocution. Miss Walker was transferred into foster care afterwards, but never stayed anywhere longer than a few months. Arrested at fourteen for-"

Vivian lunged to the right and grabbed something off the kitchen counter. Her wrist flicked forward. There was a flash of movement through the air, then a thud. A letter opener quivered, its razor edge blade stuck clear through the middle of the folder and into the wood of the coffee table. It had landed barely a half inch from Mycroft's hand, directly beneath his nose.

"I said stop," Vivian said, breathing ragged.

Mycroft didn't even flinch. He raised his head, and dark knowledge glittered in his gaze. "You're in no position to make demands, Miss Walker."

The remaining defiance drained out of her then, like sand from a shattered hourglass. Her shoulders sagged, and her eyes fell shut. "You're right," she said, voice weary. "I'm not. But I refuse to stand here while you recite my personal history." She turned to Sherlock, and although her eyes were now open, she didn't meet his gaze. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Sherlock stared at her. What could she possibly be sorry for? If anything, he should be apologizing for Mycroft's behavior. His hand reached out of its own accord, but right before his fingers could brush her arm, she spun away and strode across the room to another door. She paused, hand on the knob. Her head bowed for a moment, then her spine stiffened. She glared over her shoulder at Mycroft. "Fuck you." With that, she stalked into the other room, and slammed the door behind her.

A sense of unreality descended upon Sherlock. Vivian had just conceded a fight. If he hadn't witnessed her retreat with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it. He could still hardly fathom it. She never backed down. Never gave up ground. Not even when beaten, broken, and bleeding. And while her final words to Mycroft had been fiercely defiant, she'd still fled, hidden herself away in her own home. The sheer wrongness of seeing her this way jarred through him like a dissonant chord.

He rounded on his brother. "What in the bloody hell are you doing, Mycroft?"

"Educating you." With a sharp tug, Mycroft prised the letter opener from the middle of the folder. The firelight glinted off the blade as he held it up. One eyebrow arched. "Tell me what you see, Sherlock."

"I'm in no mood to play deductions. I want an explanation."

"I'm giving you one." Mycroft's tone turned hard. "Tell me what you see."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "It's a letter opener."

"Bravo. What else?"

"The handle is lopsided."

"Very good. And what does that tell you?"

Impatience, and a strange reticence cut through Sherlock. "I'm done with this conversation. You need to leave."

A tutting sound. "The lopsided handle tells us this poorly made letter opener was never meant for throwing. Curious, don't you think?"

Sherlock's gaze flicked to the door Vivian had gone through. He found himself wanting to go after her, to escape like she had. He didn't want to hear anymore.

"The fact Miss Walker threw a lopsided letter opener with such accuracy is remarkable on its own. But she didn't do just that, did she? No. She threw it with a hand that was encumbered by a handcuff. Now, that, brother mine, is extraordinary."

"Is it? She's been taking special self-defense courses for the past few years. Knife throwing isn't that unusual."

"Don't be willfully blind. No one, no matter their natural aptitude, could attain that level of mastery in a few years."

"Do you have a point?"

A sigh. "You must have realized by now that she is not what she seems."

Sherlock remained silent. There was little point in responding. He knew she wasn’t, and Mycroft knew he knew.

Mycroft’s head tilted to the side. “Perhaps that’s why you tolerate her company. A living, breathing mystery for you to solve.” He crossed one leg over the other. "Did you know after her aunt's death, Vivian’s remaining family shunned her? They blamed her, cut all ties." A grim chuckle. "That didn't save them though. They all died, too. Slowly, over time. Nothing suspicious. All easily explainable accidents or illnesses." He leaned forward, expression grave. "Death follows her, Sherlock. And it will follow you, too."

Silence fell, thick and suffocating, like that of a mauseoleum.

“You can’t afford to be ignorant,” Mycroft said. He slid the file folder across the coffee table toward him. “Read it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my loves! So, what did you think of this chapter? Do you think Sherlock is going to read the file? Any theories on Vivian? Before I forget, I want to tell you the TV/Film references I made in the previous chapter. I made a Doctor Who reference and a Star Trek: Into Darkness reference. Kudos to those who caught them!
> 
> My baby girl is growing happily, and consequently so am I. My belly precedes me everywhere! Thank you for reading, for your patience, and for sticking with me. I appreciate all of you!


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